contesting knowledge

Chaptertitle i
 contesting

ii author
knowledge
Museums and Indigenous Perspectives

Edited by Susan Sleeper-Smith

University of Nebraska Press | Lincoln and London

© 2009 by the Board of Regents of the
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publication of material included
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-

Publication Data
Contesting knowledge : museums and
indigenous perspectives / edited by
Susan Sleeper-Smith.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references
and index.
isbn 978-0-8032-1948-9 (pbk. : alk.
paper)
1. Ethnological museums and collec-
tions. 2. Indians — Museums.
3. Indian museum curators — At-
titudes. 4. Museums — Acquisi-
tions — Moral and ethical aspects.
5. Museum exhibits — Moral and ethi-
cal aspects. 6. Museums — Collection
management. 7. Racism in museum
exhibits. 8. Indians in popular culture.
9. Indigenous peoples in popular cul-
ture. I. Sleeper-Smith, Susan.
gn35.c64 2009
305.80074 — dc22
2009002209

Set in Minion Pro by Kim Essman.

Designed by A. Shahan.
To President Lou Anna K. Simon, whose
enduring support of American Indian Studies
has created an inclusive, caring environment
for Michigan State University students
and faculty. And to the CIC (Committee on
Institutional Cooperation) Liberal Arts and
Letters Deans for their generous support
in funding the CIC–American Indian Studies
Consortium. Thank you.
 Contents

list of illustrations ix

Contesting Knowledge: Museums and Indigenous

Perspectives 1
susan sleeper-smith

part 1: Ethnography and the Cultural Practices of Museums

The Legacy of Ethnography 9
ray silverman
1. Elite Ethnography and Cultural Eradication: Confronting
the Cannibal in Early Nineteenth-Century Brazil 15
hal langfur
2. Ethnographic Showcases as Sites of Knowledge
Production and Indigenous Resistance 45
zine magubane
3. Reinventing George Heye: Nationalizing the Museum
of the American Indian and Its Collections 65
ann m c mullen
4. Ethnographic Elaborations, Indigenous Contestations,
and the Cultural Politics of Imagining Community:
A View from the District Six Museum in South Africa 106
ciraj rassool

part 2: Curatorial Practices: Voices, Values, Languages,

and Traditions
Museums and Indigenous Perspectives on
Curatorial Practice 129
jacki thompson rand
 5. A Dialogic Response to the Problematized Past:
The National Museum of the American Indian 133
miranda j. brady
6. West Side Stories: The Blending of Voice and
Representation through a Shared Curatorial Practice 156
brenda macdougall and m. teresa carlson
7. Huichol Histories and Territorial Claims in
Two National Anthropology Museums 192
paul liffman
8. The Construction of Native Voice at the National
Museum of the American Indian 218
jennifer shannon

part 3: Tribal Museums and the Heterogeneity of the Nation-State

Creation of the Tribal Museum 251
brenda j. child
9. Tsi niyukwaliho t , the Oneida Nation Museum:
Creating a Space for Haudenosaunee Kinship and
Identity 257
kristina ackley
10. Reimagining Tribal Sovereignty through Tribal
History: Museums, Libraries, and Archives in the
Klamath River Region 283
brian isaac daniels
11. Responsibilities toward Knowledge: The Zuni Museum
and the Reconciling of Different Knowledge Systems 303
gwyneira isaac
12. Museums as Sites of Decolonization: Truth Telling in
National and Tribal Museums 322
amy lonetree

contributors 339
index 345
 Illustrations

maps
1. The eastern sertão of Brazil, Minas Gerais, ca. 1800 16
2. Saskatchewan, Canada 157
3. Huichol kiekari, Mexico 195

figures
1. Beaded smoked hide vest on display at Diefenbaker
Canada Centre 174
2. Detail of Batoche by Christi Belcourt 175
3. York boat on display at Diefenbaker Canada Centre 176
4. Marian Shrine replica at Diefenbaker Canada Centre 178
5. Replica of cabin at Diefenbaker Canada Centre 179
6. Riel genealogy display at Diefenbaker Canada Centre 180
7. Samples of infinity beadwork at Diefenbaker
Canada Centre 182
8. Tukipa (temple) in Tuapurie (Santa Catarina
Cuexcomatitlán) 209
9. Part of the Chicago community exhibit panels in
the nmai Our Lives gallery, 2004 220
10. View of First Floor East Hall, Museum of the American
Indian 225
11. Closed but visible Polar Eskimo exhibit at the National
Museum of Natural History, 2004 228
12. Entrance of the nmai 230
13. The longhouse (Kanúses néka ik ) located just outside the
Oneida Nation Museum 258
con tes ti ng k nowled ge

Chaptertitle xi
Contesting Knowledge
Museums and Indigenous Perspectives

susan sleeper-smith

At the time of European encounter, the first residents of the Americas

were divided into at least 2,000 cultures. The original inhabitants of the
Western Hemisphere did not conceive of themselves as one or even several
nations. Most people knew very little about distant communities — aware-
ness was often circumscribed by kin and trade networks. Consequently,
because Indigenous peoples did not possess a collective vision of them-
selves, the idea of the Indian or Indians emerged as a white image or ste-
reotype. Indians became a single entity for the purposes of description
and analysis.
Simultaneously, by categorizing all Indigenous people as Indians, the
newcomers downplayed the differences between Indigenous peoples, lead-
ing to a centuries-long confusion and a melding of fundamentally incor-
rect ways of understanding human societies. When Columbus applied
the term Indian to people in the Caribbean, its use became embedded in
narratives of encounter and has continued to the present day. Even early
eyewitness accounts that described a specific tribe or community were
generalized and often evolved as descriptive of all Indians. Present-day
people who use the word Indian have little idea of the diversity of cultures
and of tribal communities that this term encompasses.
Global expansion created new notions about human nature and em-
bedded knowledge: about the types of societies that met across this stage
of encounter in a wealth of objects that were collected from “foreign”
cultures and transported to Europe. Many objects were received through
the traditional exchange of goods; and, like written narratives, these ob-
jects were displayed as a way of telling stories about Indians. Museums,
like literary texts, were also purposefully constructed to tell stories about

1
Western, rather than Indigenous, society. When the objects collected for
“cabinets of curiosity” were moved from the private to the public sphere,
they visually reinforced the stereotypes associated with Indians. Notions
about the “primitive” nature of Indian society influenced what was col-
lected and how it was displayed. Most frequently, Indigenous peoples were
described in terms of deficiencies. Consequently, Indians were measured
against the ideals of Western society; and whether describing beliefs, val-
ues, or institutions, they were measured against the institutions that West-
ern society most cherished about themselves at the time.
The public museum became a meeting ground for official and formal
versions of the past. Because history was constructed through objects,
curators created the interpretative context for each object. Objects that
were placed in museums were initially decontextualized and made to tell
an evolutionary narrative about the progress of Western societies and
the primitiveness of Indigenous communities. Museums functioned as
powerful rhetorical devices that created dominant and often pathologi-
cal allegiances to a cultural ideal. In the first section of this volume, Ray
Silverman shows how these essays explore stereotypes about Indigenous
people who shaped the early period of contact. In both Brazil and South
Africa, violence was perpetuated against Native peoples and “just wars”
were rationalized as a means of imposing a “civilized” order on Indige-
nous space. For instance, the inscription of “primitive” behaviors, which
described Indigenous people as cannibals, raises important issues about
how public exhibition space functioned. In displays of human beings as
objects, we see how Africans were not silenced even when they allowed
themselves to be exhibited. As Zine Magubane tells us,

Those denied the opportunity to express themselves verbally used their

bodies, facial expressions, and other nonverbal forms of communica-
tion to show that they were sentient beings who knew how humiliat-
ing their circumstance was and who wished to live differently. Those
who mastered the language and mores of English society were more
direct. They challenged the supremacy of English culture and values.
They demonstrated their awareness of the shortcomings of English so-
ciety. And they, like their silenced brethren, insisted on the necessity
of independence and self-determination. Others chose the path of si-

2 sleeper-smith
 lence — showing their displeasure through a deliberate refusal to en-
gage. And still others, like Ota Benga, chose death.

In the Western exhibition of colonized people, the Indigenous voice could

not be silenced. Initially, there were no Indigenous museums that de-
scribed the horrors associated with colonization. As Jacki Rand points
out, in the second section of this volume, it was only in the mid-twen-
tieth century that Indigenous people were invited to share power with
museum professionals. Museums that sought Indigenous consultation
encouraged Native people to make a case for their own humanity and to
educate others about ties to ancestral lands. The founding of the National
Museum of the American Indian made an attempt to speak directly to the
problematized space of public museums and to the troubled relationship
between Native and non-Native people. While the National Museum of
the American Indian (nmai) aspires to a mutually interactive voice that
incorporates the museum’s professional staff and Native collaborators, the
viability of that partnership has often been problematic. The central loca-
tion of the museum on the mall has transformed the Indian into a promi-
nent public figure, but often the incorporation of multiple storylines into
one narrative has constrained the multiplicity of those voices that create
those narratives.
In section three, Brenda Child describes the dramatic contrast between
the National Museum of the American Indian and the movement toward
the creation of tribal museums. Tribal museums represent one of the most
effective ways of serving diverse communities. Each Indigenous nation
possesses a distinct historical tradition, and it is the tribal museum that
embodies Indigenous perspectives and serves the more varied needs of
individual communities. Tribal museums function as preservation proj-
ects that teach traditional narratives and lifeways and, above all, serve
the needs of the individual communities. Educating the broader public
remains part of the tribal museum project, although it is no longer at the
heart of these newer museums.
The last section of this volume is devoted to exploring how tribal mu-
seums have changed since the early days of the 1960s and 1970s. As the
beneficiaries of enhanced public awareness and changing educational pri-
orities, they have increasingly functioned as both museums and centers

Contesting Knowledge 3
of community life. All of these museums are remarkable because in their
diversity they testify to the ongoing revitalization of Native life.

Many of the changes that are apparent in the museums across North
America are also evident across the global landscape. The demand to cre-
ate alternative narratives and to give force to formerly colonized peoples
parallels the same issues that have evolved in Indian Country. Indigenous
museums founded within communities remind us that colonized land-
scapes were once the homelands of these oppressed peoples. While muse-
ums may have emerged as part of the original colonial project, they have
been put to new purposes. Their reinvention parallels the changes that
are taking place in Indian Country. Whether it is South Africa or all of
Africa, Mexico and Brazil or all of South America, Indigenous people are
using museums to emerge from invisibility and to deconstruct the coloni-
zation narrative from the viewpoint of the oppressed. At the heart of these
projects is a multiplicity of voices, a variety of narratives, and the use of
museums as tools of revitalization. While techniques vary, the ability to
construct meaningful narratives, defined by a variety of perspectives, has
led to a global surge in the number of tribal museums.

These chapters were presented as papers on September 24, 2007, at the

Newberry Library as part of the CIC/Newberry Library American In-
dian Studies Fall Symposium entitled Indigenous Past and Present: First
Annual Symposium, Contesting Knowledge: Museums and Indigenous
Perspectives. The symposium was organized and supported by the CIC–
American Indian Studies Consortium. The CIC–AIS Consortium fac-
ulty are drawn from the Big Ten universities and the University of Chi-
cago, and they share an interest in American Indian Studies. This pool
of CIC faculty relies on the consortium to foster faculty research and to
share in the training of graduate students. CIC faculty teach workshops,
seminars, and encourage networking across the graduate student body
through the annual spring graduate conference. Additional information
about the CIC–AIS Consortium is located on their website: http://www
.msu.edu/~cicaisc.
This symposium has been supported by the CIC–Liberal Arts and Sci-
ences Deans and their support has generously been supplemented by

4 sleeper-smith
the administration of the Michigan State University campus. Our sin-
cere thanks to Dean Karen Klomparens, the dean of Graduate Studies;
Paulette Granberry Russell, the director and senior advisor to the presi-
dent for diversity; Kim Wilcox, the provost of Michigan State University;
Doug Estry, office of the associate provost for undergraduate education;
and Ian Gray, vice president for research and development.

Contesting Knowledge 5
1
Ethnography and
the Cultural Practices
of Museums
 The Legacy of Ethnography
ray silverman

The four essays included in this section address a range of subjects as-
sociated with museums and heritage; they each in one way or another
consider how Indigenous peoples have been represented in a variety of
cultural and historical settings — in the archive, in the “ethnographic the-
ater,” and in the museum. The essays offer a variety of historical and in-
stitutional contexts for (re)presenting Indigenous culture, and as a group
they raise a number of questions that foreground issues germane to virtu-
ally all papers delivered at the symposium. As such, they help frame our
critical discourse concerning the role of the museum in (re)presenting
Indigenous pasts and presents.
The thread that binds these four seemingly disparate essays together
is how ethnography has influenced European modes of representing the
people whom they colonized. Ethnography has provided the “scientific”
justification for much of the colonial project in the Americas and in Af-
rica. The strategy emerged two hundred years ago and persists to this
day — it is a mode of thinking that has proven difficult to shake off and
continues to influence how Indigenous peoples are represented in muse-
ums and related cultural institutions.
Hal Langfur’s essay focuses not on museums but on the archive. He
critically examines how the accounts of early nineteenth-century Euro-
pean naturalists and other travelers who encountered Brazil’s Indigenous
peoples, specifically the Botocudo, were used to construct a very specific
image of these peoples as “quintessential primitives.” In these accounts,
emphasis was placed on references to cannibalism, as perhaps the most
poignant evidence of Botocudo savagery. Langfur argues that this method
of writing and reading ethnography not only served to rationalize the co-
lonial project in Brazil but also provided the foundation for how Brazil’s

9
Indigenous peoples would be represented in the nation’s first museums,
archives, and historical societies.
Although Langfur focuses primarily on written accounts, one might
suspect that the artifacts that these nineteenth-century ethnographers
collected reinforced popular European perceptions of Native Americans
as primitive and savage.
The situation in nineteenth-century Brazil is not unlike colonial en-
counters in other parts of the world. Contemporary travel accounts of
Europeans visiting North America, Africa, and the Pacific Islands are re-
plete with such imagery. This “data” fueled various European ideologies,
including social Darwinism, and offered the justification to subjugate and
reform the “primitive.” Indeed, this mode of representation was central
to the civilizing mission of Europe well into the twentieth century.
Zine Magubane’s essay examines another dimension of this phenom-
enon: the theatrical display of Africans in Europe and the United States
in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The essay focuses on the
ethnographic showcase — theatrical performances involving individuals
who were brought, supposedly of their own free will, from Africa to Eu-
rope and the United States, where they were exhibited as exotic ethno-
graphic specimens. These performances were, in effect, “human zoos.”
Other venues for exhibiting Africans in this manner included world’s
fairs and expositions. These displays were predicated on the popular un-
derstanding of the “science” of ethnology but, as Magubane points out,
went far beyond science and education, often assuming the character of
a commercial freak show staged for the amusement of the masses. Once
again, such exhibits can be seen as a manifestation of the colonial proj-
ect. Magubane observes, “the popularity of ethnographic showcases and
the progress of the British Empire were always closely linked.”
In addition to describing the nature of human exhibits, Magubane be-
gins to examine evidence that counters the prevalent understanding that
those who appeared in these “theatrical” settings were passive, acquiescent
individuals. Here, the careful reading of the archive reveals that individu-
als such as Saartjie Baartman (South Africa) and Ota Benga (Congo), in
fact, were not complacent victims but confronted and resisted the “han-
dlers” who exploited them. This is a line of inquiry that deserves a great
deal more attention.

10 silverman
 Evidence that this mode of representation still persists appears in the
presentation of Africans in zoos in Europe and North America. Still ex-
oticized as people who live close to nature, as they always have, Africans
living in “villages” are now integrated with displays of African animals
in zoos around the world. Once again, “ethnographic authenticity” is in-
voked as the rationale for developing such exhibits, thus reinforcing long-
held, distorted stereotypes of Africans. However, such practices do not
go unnoticed. Recent events at zoos in Augsberg in Germany and Seattle
in the United States have sparked local debates concerning the propriety
of such representations.
The critique of another mode of ethnography is the subject of Ann
McMullen’s essay, in which she reexamines the work of George Gustav
Heye, the man whose collection of 700,000 artifacts serves as the core
collection (85 percent) of the National Museum of the American Indian
(nmai). The essay does not deal much with the representation of Native
American culture but focuses on how Heye himself has been represented
in and by museums. The custom in the nmai has been to treat his mem-
ory with considerable ambivalence. He is often dismissed as “just a crazy
white man” with an indiscriminate penchant for acquiring Indian arti-
facts. McMullen engages the archive in an attempt to set Heye in a more
objective light, to understand the man’s motivations for building his huge
collection, and to place his collecting methods in a historical context.
The primary rationale for Heye’s collecting activities was the “salvag-
ing” of traditions that were perceived as disappearing — a strategy cham-
pioned by anthropologists of his day such as Franz Boas. But what ex-
actly was salvaged? McMullen relates how Heye sent his agents into the
field to purchase objects, often with little attention paid to properly doc-
umenting the provenance or cultural context of the objects. What then
is the National Museum of the American Indian going to do with all this
material? At present, the museum’s curators are using objects primarily
as props to tell stories about the Americas and their Indigenous peoples,
past and present. Do the objects themselves have any stories to tell? In
some cases cultural memory still exists pertaining to the meaning these
objects had when they were first collected, but this is more the exception
than the rule. Their value today lies primarily in the conversations that

Part 1 Introduction 11
occur around the objects, and the new meanings that are ascribed to them.
Everything Heye collected that now serves as the tangible core of the nmai
presents something of a paradox. How will it be used? What meaning
do all these things hold for societies, such as those of Native Americans,
that for the most part do share the same values with Euro-American so-
ciety concerning the preservation of material objects but that also place
greater value in preserving the intangible traditions with which the ob-
jects are associated? The situation in which the nmai currently finds itself
raises an interesting question, one that faces many museums that are at-
tempting to (re)present local Indigenous tradition. Is the concept of the
object-centered museum an appropriate model for representing Native
American culture and history?
A related issue that is raised tangentially in McMullen’s essay is a theme
that appears in several of the essays presented in this volume. This con-
cerns the nmai’s struggle to deliver on the expectations that it set for itself.
McMullen cites a report that she authored herself in 2006, which states
that the nmai strives to become an “international center that represents
the totality [my emphasis] of Native experiences,” apparently for all Na-
tive peoples of the Western Hemisphere. How does a museum accomplish
this, especially as a government-supported national institution, a national
museum representing hundreds of nations?
This is not a problem unique to the nmai. At the African International
Council of Museums (africom) meeting, held in Cape Town, South Af-
rica, in October 2006, a major topic of conversation concerned decoloniz-
ing the museum. One response to the issue that is particularly poignant
came from the director of the National Museums of Kenya, Dr. Idle Omar
Farah. He suggests that not until African museums are economically inde-
pendent — that is, they do not have to rely on support from Europe — will
they be able to shake off colonial or neocolonial agendas that still drive a
good deal of what goes on in African museums. As part of the Smithso-
nian, can the nmai be decolonized?
The fourth essay, written by Ciraj Rassool, directly confronts this issue
by arguing that, despite having moved into a postcolonial era, museums
still struggle with how formerly colonized peoples are represented. This
is because museums continue to employ exhibit strategies grounded in

12 silverman
colonial legacies, specifically those associated with ethnology and eth-
nography. Rassool’s discussion, situated in postapartheid South Africa,
reveals that the identity and community politics lying at the heart of her-
itage debates are shared among Indigenous peoples around the world. A
diorama displaying Khoisan life installed at Iziko, the National Museum of
South Africa, has been the source of considerable debate for decades — still
unresolved, it raises many of the same issues concerning Native Ameri-
can dioramas installed in natural history museums in the United States.
Similarly, there is a good deal of resonance here in the United States with
challenges that Iziko faces pertaining to if and how it should represent In-
digenous culture. Their struggle is not unlike that currently experienced
in our large metropolitan museums that represent Native American peo-
ples. The same holds true for issues concerning the repatriation of human
remains.
Rassool presents the work of the District Six Museum in Cape Town
as an example of an institution that has made considerable progress in
redressing the injustices of the apartheid era and approaching “issues
of community, restitution, and social healing in ways that give a non-
racial and anti-racist character to its museum methods.”1 The success of
the District Six Museum reveals that it is in local community-centered
museums — not national museums — that the most innovative and exciting
work is being undertaken. New modes of representation are being created
that offer a means for confronting history and establishing a place for the
individual and community in today’s national and global societies.
Another dimension of the District Six Museum that is worth noting
is that it represents a very successful partnership between a community
and the academy. Ciraj Rassool has played an active role in the District
Six community, specifically in the work of its museum. He has brought
his knowledge of social and political theory to the museum and, in turn,
has learned from the expertise of the various community members who
have been involved in museum-related activities. This partnership is a tes-
timony to the value of public scholarship — a model worth emulating.
Rassool’s essay demonstrates the degree to which the challenges of rep-
resentation of Indigenous, formerly disenfranchised, peoples are shared
between North American and South African culture workers. It also

Part 1 Introduction 13
makes apparent the potential benefits of comparative and collaborative
work relating to the representation of people and culture in museums.

Notes
1. Ciraj Rassool, “Abstract of Paper for the First Annual Symposium: Contesting
Knowledge; Museums and Indigenous Perspectives,” paper presented at the New-
berry Library, Chicago, September 24, 2007.

14 silverman
1
Elite Ethnography and
Cultural Eradication
Confronting the Cannibal in
Early Nineteenth-Century Brazil
hal langfur

When Prince Regent João declared war against the Indigenous inhabit-
ants of Brazil’s eastern forests in 1808, cannibalism served as the princi-
pal basis for deeming the military action legal and just. From the onset
of Portugal’s colonization of the Atlantic coastline between Salvador da
Bahia and Rio de Janeiro in the sixteenth century, native peoples who in-
habited the inland mountains and river valleys were targeted for violent
conquest on the same moral grounds. The coastal Tupi-speaking peoples
were similarly condemned for consuming their enemies, but they did so
for ritual purposes only. Their conduct could be altered, many church and
secular authorities thought, through conversion to Christianity and hard
work in the burgeoning sugar-plantation economy. The inland speakers
of Gê-based languages, by contrast, ate people for basic sustenance, col-
onists believed. Known variously as the Tapuia, the Aimoré, and by the
mid-eighteenth century the Botocudo, these Indians were considered ex-
ceptionally savage. As a rule, plans for the colonization of the territory
occupied by these highly mobile hunters and gatherers focused on their
flight or eradication. The climactic violent confrontation between set-
tlers and the various ethnic groups of the eastern forests escalated well
before the declaration of a “just war” in 1808. After prospectors in the
1690s discovered gold and, later, diamonds farther inland in the region
that became the captaincy of Minas Gerais, the Portuguese Crown placed
the coastal forests off-limits. By banning exploration and settlement, the
Crown sought to defend the mining district from potential outside in-

15
 FPO

1. The eastern sertão of Brazil, Minas Gerais, ca. 1800. (All boundary lines are ap-
proximations and were disputed.) Map by Susan Long.
truders and to stanch the flow of untaxed contraband through the forests
to smugglers waiting along the coast. During the second half of the eigh-
teenth century, as many of the most accessible mineral washings waned,
occupants of the mining district began to challenge this prohibition with
increasing insistence, often supported by captaincy authorities. As they
searched for alternative sources of gold or simply for more land for farm-
ing and ranching, they had new reasons to eye the coastal forests to the
east. Known in Minas Gerais as the eastern sertão (backlands), these for-
ests became the site of intense conflict between colonists and the Boto-
cudo, the Puri, the Pataxó, and other groups. If these purported canni-
bals had once served royal interests by discouraging access to the forested
no-man’s-land, their continued dominance by the final decades of the
colonial era seemed intolerable. The 1808 military mobilization signaled
the Crown’s adoption of a policy of violent conquest that had long since
emerged at the captaincy level.1
Charges of cannibalism tended to proliferate at such moments of great
antagonism. This correlation alone reminds us to exercise extreme cau-
tion in accepting such accusations at face value. Present-day scholars who
fret over this problem, which extends far beyond Brazil to innumerable
colonial battlegrounds where Indigenous peoples stood accused of hei-
nous crimes, are far from the first to do so.2 In the immediate aftermath
of the 1808 war, a cadre of European naturalists descended on the east-
ern forests to study this region and its natives, who were then, for the
first time, accessible to scientific or at least quasi-scientific investigation.
These early ethnologists took particular interest in verifying the practice
of cannibalism. As might be expected, they came to no consensus, either
with respect to its pervasiveness or its objective characteristics.
My intention in this chapter is not to revisit this debate but to explore
a related issue: how authorities, both civil and scientific, both Brazilian
and foreign, responded when they had no doubt that the Indians they
sought to eliminate, pacify, or study ate other humans. The chapter ex-
plores the case of an obscure frontier official who thought cannibalism
could be countered with fishhooks and glass beads, followed by the coun-
terexample of his superiors who opted for war. Discussion then turns to a
European ethnographer, probably more directly involved in the conflict
than any other, who found the state’s response to cannibalism as appall-

Elite Ethnography and Cultural Eradication 17

ing as the practice itself. His position prompted a radical proposal that
state officials learn to think and act more like the man-eaters they sought
to subjugate.
The divergent approaches of these individuals to what they considered
to be quintessential savagery suggest a simple proposition: the transfor-
mation of tangible interethnic conflict into abstract ethnographic knowl-
edge involved a process that was more complicated and contradictory
than we perhaps suspect. Before we can conclude that we know what
elite characterizations of native cultures meant, confident that we un-
derstand elite intentions, we have a great deal more work to do in the ar-
chives. Only by exploring the relationships between Indigenous practice,
personal ambition, official intent, and scientific findings will we improve
our understanding of the production of knowledge eventually enshrined
in institutions charged with presenting Indigenous cultures in the public
sphere.

In the Atlantic Forest

The first encounter with cannibals that I wish to examine involves a
midlevel frontier official who was based in northeastern Minas Gerais.
At the beginning of the nineteenth century, José Pereira Freire de Moura
headed the small Indian aldeia (village) of Tocoiós, located along the up-
per Jequitinhonha River in a region then covered by the Atlantic forest.3
At the time, Tocoiós lay at the outer reaches of settlement in Minas Gerais.
To the east, beyond the village, the Jequitinhonha River plunged into the
forest, descending through rugged, mountainous terrain and spilling into
the Atlantic Ocean north of Porto Seguro, not far from the site where
Pedro Álvares Cabral first anchored off the Brazilian coast in 1500. Gold
had been discovered in the area no later than the 1720s by bandeirantes
(backwoodsmen) from São Paulo. Colonization of the surrounding forests
stalled, however, in part because of resistance from the region’s semino-
madic Indigenous peoples. Settlers moved in with greater impetus in the
early nineteenth century, fanning out from the declining central mining
district, attracted to the area by the spread of cotton cultivation.4
As administrator of the nascent aldeia, Moura became preoccupied
by a series of encounters with an elusive group of highly mobile Indians,
which he identified as a band of Botocudo. These encounters occurred as

18 langfur
soldiers worked to secure the river valley for further colonization and for
the transport of goods between the mining district and the coast. Moura
was convinced that the natives contacted were Botocudo principally be-
cause of their reported cannibalism, along with other characteristics in-
cluding the wooden ornaments they wore in their ears and lower lips,
their language, their rudimentary dwellings, and their itinerant hunting
and foraging. In a report issued on these contacts in 1809, he noted that
Botocudo cannibalism went hand in hand with a proclivity for violence
and irrationality. He recalled one confrontation between fifty Botocudo
warriors and more than 200 armed colonists. The Indians had “fought
until they had used up all of their arrows.” All of them died in battle ex-
cept one, “who grabbed hold of the trunk of a tree to avoid being killed.
He refused all food for three days and in the end beat his head against the
tree trunk so many times that he died.”
Evidence of cannibalism among these forest dwellers was recent and
verifiable. According to Moura, in an incident that occurred around the
turn of the century, a band of Botocudo had devised a cruel plot to de-
vour three runaway black slaves. The Indians convinced the fugitives to
follow them to a spot along the banks of the Jequitinhonha River, where
they promised gold could be found in abundance. There they killed two
of the three blacks. The third escaped to Tocoiós and described the mur-
ders. His tale was investigated with horrific results. When a group of colo-
nists pursued the Indians, they discovered the vestiges of a cannibal feast.
The remains of the victims consisted of “heaps of bones . . . scorched by
a fire and thoroughly gnawed.” The crime remained fresh in the memory
of local settlers: as evidence of the Indians’ savagery, their pursuers had
brought back the skull of one of the victims and placed it in the settle-
ment’s cemetery, where it stood as a daily reminder of native atrocities.
Beginning in 1804, Moura provided instructions to a series of expe-
ditions that were aimed at coaxing these Indians peacefully into settled
society. The first of these expeditions descended the Jequitinhonha River
under the leadership of a corporal named Manoel Rodrigues Prates.5 On
an island that was deemed suitable for the planned encounter, the cor-
poral erected a tent and set up a portable forge. With steel and iron that
had been carried to the site, his troops fabricated machetes and fishhooks.
When they finally sighted the Botocudo along the far bank of the river,

Elite Ethnography and Cultural Eradication 19

they approached them with the help of an Indian translator who had been
brought to the area from the Doce River basin to the south. They invited
the reputed cannibals to join them on the island in order to receive the
manufactured tools. At first the Indians proved to be wary. A member of
their band, described as black skinned, unlike the others, warned them
to suspect a ruse. They would be captured and killed, just as members of
his family had once been murdered by whites. After some delay, lured by
assurances from the troops, the others ignored the warning and crossed
to the island on canoes.
Corporal Prates then urged the Botocudo to return upriver some twenty
leagues (about 130 kilometers) to Tocoiós. They consented, reaching the
aldeia ahead of the troops. As head of the settlement, Moura welcomed
them with “all due kindness and friendship,” distributing more gifts. Over
the course of the next two years, the Indians returned for further visits.
Then, mysteriously, they disappeared. Prates led forest patrols every year
for three consecutive years in an attempt to contact the Indians, but they
were not to be found. Moura suspected that they were purposefully avoid-
ing contact, because fresh signs of their presence in the forest were always
evident. They likely remained hidden as a response to the increasing mo-
bilization for the declared war that was then underway.
Moura had personal reasons for his accommodating approach to the
Indians of the Jequitinhonha River valley, reasons which involved three
generations of his family. He was orchestrating a plan that stood little
chance of success without the cooperation of the Botocudo, a plan that
first emerged when he discovered an undated document among the pa-
pers of his deceased father. The document described a route down the
Jequitinhonha River and then overland through the dense forests to a
place described as Lagoa Dourada, the Golden Lagoon. Like an account
of El Dorado or a map of buried treasure, imbued with the same potential
to inspire dreams of undiscovered riches, the document was a signed, first
person description of an expedition manned by bandeirantes from São
Paulo. These men had wandered through the region, probably more than
a century before, and uncovered evidence of ample gold deposits, which
they had not had the time or wherewithal to unearth. Moura wished to
retrace their steps, but increasing age and infirmity prevented him from

20 langfur
doing so. He next sought to mount an expedition, to be led by one of his
sons, in search of the Golden Lagoon.6
This quest would entail descending the Jequitinhonha River in canoes
to a point where waterfalls made it impassable. The troops would then
march overland, making contact with various fractured ethnic groups
known to be living in the area. Moura described these groups as the “re-
mains of nations . . . fleeing their total destruction” in raids launched by
Botocudo from the Doce River basin to the south, the most violent the-
ater of the war. Moura remained convinced of the merits of attracting
the Botocudo rather than attacking them, despite their famed hostility,
not the least because the stakes were so high for him personally. The re-
gion he was attempting to explore, he wrote, “always was the one most
exposed to invasions by the Botocudo.” Although he had managed to win
the friendship of some, they could easily launch a “treasonous” attack if
they sensed weakness or became dissatisfied. “In this case,” he explained,
“I and my family will be the first ones sacrificed.”7
To ensure the success of his plan, Moura sought permission from the
highest authorities in Brazil. He sent a second son to Rio de Janeiro, car-
rying a letter addressed to the venerable count of Linhares, Rodrigo de
Souza Coutinho, the royal minister of war. He explained that his increas-
ing knowledge of the unsettled forests, a consequence of his efforts to in-
teract with the natives, had convinced him that “great wealth” could be
found if the expedition he proposed were allowed to follow the old itin-
erary. For this reason, he asked the war minister to appeal to the mon-
arch himself. In Rio de Janeiro Moura’s son would purchase powder, shot,
iron, and other supplies for the expedition, including a stock of quin-
quilharias (trifles), the term customarily used to describe gifts that were
considered by settlers to be of little value — mirrors, beads, ribbons, for
example — but useful for appeasing wary natives. The expedition could
be resupplied from the coast if necessary, since Moura gauged that the
old route would place the explorers closer to the sea than to the settled
interior of Minas Gerais. In addition to financial support, Moura sought
a series of orders from the prince regent, requiring both the governor of
Minas Gerais, Pedro Maria Xavier Ataíde e Melo (1803–1810), and other
officials to cooperate.8
The text of Moura’s letter made it clear that he had been stymied by

Elite Ethnography and Cultural Eradication 21

the standard chain of command, ascending through local military offi-
cers to the governor. Moura sought to circumvent those he suspected of
foiling his attempt to locate the site. For starters, royal backing would al-
low him to round up recruits, by force if necessary, and press them into
service. His efforts would bear fruit, he wrote the war minister, only “if
Your Excellency would be kind enough to lend your authority in order to
remove the obstacles that might impede me.” With such support, he pre-
dicted his mission would be of “great utility” to the Crown’s vassals and
its treasury.9
The existing evidence suggests that an expedition of substantial size
eventually did set out from the distant frontier outpost where Moura
dreamed of untapped gold. Another note he drafted listed more than
three dozen men whom he designated as participants, some of them being
identified as “prisoners.” He had asked the district military commander
to place these individuals under his command. An unsigned document,
also apparently written by Moura, contains orders that had been issued
to his son, detailing instructions for leading a bandeira, or wilderness
expedition. The orders indicated that the men were expected to spend
six months or more in the forest. They also stipulated that the expedi-
tion must “never attack the Indians without previous provocation from
them.” Their “good treatment” was to be guaranteed by the distribution
of machetes, fishhooks, knives, and trinkets. The Botocudo were even to
be invited to join the expedition, if possible. The document makes refer-
ence to a separate order issued by the prince regent to purchase supplies.
The evidence, if incomplete, suggests that Moura succeeded in his effort to
sway the Crown to accommodate his attempt to placate cannibals rather
than kill them.10
Given the main currents of state Indigenous policy at the time, this was
no small achievement. Elsewhere in the eastern forests, the monarch car-
ried on with his declared war, a paradox that serves to emphasize the is-
sue that most concerns me here: accusations of cannibalism and savagery
could be used by colonists and the state for a full range of purposes, in-
cluding those that were diametrically opposed. It is important to recog-
nize the extent to which this frontier official’s approach was distinctive,
which is not to say unique since there were always others who favored
cultural accommodation. Given his immediate and gruesome experience

22 langfur
of cannibalism, Moura could have been impelled to judge the Indians to
be irredeemable, candidates for enslavement or extermination in accor-
dance with prevailing Crown and captaincy policies. This was not the case.
Convinced that he was negotiating with man-eaters, Moura proceeded
to attempt to woo them into the village that he administered. He thought
it was no great leap of faith to insist that with patience and persistence
such natives could be gradually assimilated. While labeling Indians as
cannibals may have always served the colonial project, Moura’s approach
demonstrates that more specific objectives differed according to individ-
ual colonists, including officials committed, as he was, to loyal service to
the Crown. That Moura, who lived closer than most to the source of war-
time fear and conflict, could react with equanimity to what he deemed to
be irrefutable proof of Botocudo cannibalism should caution us against
assuming that we automatically know the implications of the impulse to
represent Indians as devourers of human flesh.

At the Centers of Power

During the years in which Moura labored at Tocoiós, Indian resistance
to conquest intensified to match a growing state commitment to coloni-
zation. Writing to the governor of Minas Gerais in 1807, Diogo Ribeiro
de Vasconcelos, a Portuguese-born member of the local elite who occu-
pied numerous high government posts, called for the river valleys and
forests to the east of the mining district to be opened to navigation and
definitively settled. Recognizing that barriers both “moral and physical”
stood in the way, Vasconcelos nevertheless urged the captaincy governor
to move aggressively. “Incalculable are the advantages in terms of exports
and imports that can come to the captaincy by way of navigation” of the
rivers linking Minas Gerais to the coast, he argued. “Apart from com-
merce, we would equally obtain the vast riches that cover those lands.”
Unfortunately, travel through the area remained blocked by the “hostili-
ties of cannibals,” which could be countered once and for all only with
“sufficient military force.”11
The influence of men like Vasconcelos, a resident of Vila Rica, the cap-
taincy capital, helps explain why Moura’s pursuit of patient interactions
with the Botocudo met with opposition from his superiors. Vasconce-
los was well aware of Moura’s efforts. Before Moura decided to appeal

Elite Ethnography and Cultural Eradication 23

directly to the Crown, Vasconcelos took note of his search for the place
where “the Paulistas of long ago discovered the gold mines of the Golden
Lagoon.” He even referred to Moura as an able administrator of the aldeia
at Tocoiós. The two men, however, could not have differed more sharply
when it came to basic strategy concerning the region’s independent In-
digenous peoples. Where Moura favored nonviolent interaction based
on the premise of cultural malleability, Vasconcelos pressed for military
conquest, being convinced of the Indians’ rigid savagery.12
All peaceful methods were doomed, Vasconcelos argued. “Barbarous
men are not persuaded to abandon their customs with iron utensils and
glass beads, with bagatelles.” The practice of establishing state-run Indian
villages would ultimately fail to lure natives out of the forests. The Boto-
cudo were “devourers of animals of their same species, insensible to the
voices of reason and humanity that invite them to participate in society.”
They should be “hunted down and run through with knives, until such
evils subject the remainder of them to their obligations.” Force would “ef-
fect what through kindness we have been unable to achieve,” Vasconce-
los concluded. “Force is appropriate for men incapable of education and
principled action.”13
Vasconcelos wrote these heated passages on the eve of the war’s decla-
ration. He did so from frustrated resignation, which he construed to be
the consequence of the refusal of the eastern Indians to accept the com-
passionate terms of colonial authority. A self-appointed captaincy histo-
rian, he fixed on force as the only viable solution after poring over the of-
ficial records at his disposal. His research turned up royal orders that were
“worthy of the pious and enlightened sovereigns that imposed them.” A
string of governors had done their utmost to achieve peaceful relations
with the natives. Even Vasconcelos’s contemporary, the belligerent gov-
ernor Melo, had done what he could to apply “kindness in reducing the
savages to the church and state.” All such attempts to “settle the Indians
in aldeias and civilize them” had amounted to nothing. “There is no hand
powerful enough, no eloquence capable of persuading them to abandon
their ways and the dense woods in which they are born,” Vasconcelos la-
mented. “The cannibal Botocudo does not allow for the conventions of
peace and friendship.” The only rational response to such savagery, he
reasoned, was violence.14

24 langfur
 Such arguments contributed to a hardening of Indigenous policy lead-
ing up to the declaration of war. The war signaled the final abandonment
of the Crown’s longstanding commitment to maintaining the eastern for-
est as a forbidden, unsettled zone occupied by hostile Indians. This earlier
policy, which had eroded over the previous decades, was part of the rea-
son that Indians had remained so dominant in the region, even though it
lay just inland from the Atlantic coast. Opting for war, the Crown bowed
to the pressures of an increasing number of miners, farmers, ranchers,
and captaincy officials. In the face of dwindling gold production, they had
forged an incompatible local policy of opening the territory to explora-
tion and settlement.15
The extent and success of Indian resistance to this encroachment pro-
vided whatever further justification Prince Regent João needed to recast
royal Indigenous policy. By his formulation, it had been Indian aggres-
sion alone that forced the declaration of war. Forgotten were decades of
provocative actions by authorities and soldiers as they searched for more
gold and diamonds, circumventing royal restrictions. Ignored, too, was
the slow but persistent advance of settlers as they continued to push east-
ward from the mining district into the coastal forests. The prince regent
had accepted the view that once-desirable native opposition to the pres-
ence of colonists could no longer be sanctioned.
He declared war against the Botocudo on May 13, 1808, just three
months after arriving in Rio de Janeiro from Lisbon, where he had been
cast into exile by Napoleon’s advancing armies. An uncompromising mil-
itary offensive then seemed the only answer to the outcry of those who
had labored unsuccessfully to settle the eastern forests. From the mon-
arch’s new perspective and geographic position in the colonial capital,
these lands stretched northward over a great distance, separating Rio de
Janeiro from the two other most important centers of colonial settlement
in Minas Gerais and Bahia.
Now it became the monarch’s turn to represent the native cultures
of this territory, making meaning and policy out of accusations decry-
ing their cannibalism. Addressing his war declaration to Governor Melo,
the monarch wrote that his determination to act derived from “grave
complaints” that had reached the throne about native atrocities. He con-
demned the “invasions that the cannibal Botocudos [were] practicing

Elite Ethnography and Cultural Eradication 25

daily,” especially along the banks of the Doce River and its tributaries. The
Indians had managed to “devastate all of the fazendas located in those
areas . . . [and] forced many landowners to abandon them at great loss to
themselves and to my royal Crown.” To achieve their ends, they dared to
perpetrate “the most horrible and atrocious scenes of the most barbarous
cannibalism.” They “assassinated” settlers and “tame Indians” alike. The
Indians opened wounds in their victims and drank their blood. They dis-
membered them and consumed their “sad remains.” Echoing Vasconce-
los’s report of the previous year, the monarch maintained that such con-
duct demonstrated, once and for all, “the uselessness of all human efforts”
to civilize the Botocudo, to settle them in villages, and to persuade them
“to take pleasure in the permanent advantages of a peaceful and gentle so-
ciety.” As a consequence, he then declared the end of what he termed his
“defensive” policy. He replaced it with one of “just” and “offensive war,” a
war that would “have no end,” until settlers returned to their habitations
and the Indians submitted to the rule of law.16
To prosecute the war, the governor was to deploy six detachments of
foot soldiers, each responsible for a particular sector of those lands “in-
fested” by the Botocudo. Selecting soldiers who were fit for such “hard
and rugged” duty, the commanders of these detachments would form “di-
verse bandeiras.” These wilderness patrols would “constantly, every year
during the dry season, enter into the forests,” until they had effected the
“total reduction of [this] . . . cruel cannibal race.” Armed Indians who
were captured in these actions would be considered prisoners of war and
subject to a ten-year period of enslavement. Although the decree singled
out the Botocudo, the governor was to understand that it pertained to the
“reduction and civilization . . . of other Indian races,” as well.17
The wholesale destruction of surviving native cultures in this forested
refuge zone spread rapidly through eastern Minas Gerais, inland Espírito
Santo, and southern Bahia. One European naturalist, who was travel-
ing in the area in the immediate aftermath of the worst violence, de-
scribed the results with unconcealed shock. He observed that “no truce
was granted the Botocudo, who proceeded to be exterminated wherever
they were encountered, without regard to age or sex.” The war, he wrote,
“was maintained with the greatest perseverance and cruelty, since it was
firmly believed that [the Botocudo] killed and devoured any enemy that

26 langfur
fell into their hands.” Another observer estimated the number of troops
who were permanently deployed in the eastern sertão at 400 in 1810, al-
though 2,000 were reported to have been mustered for one of the war’s
largest expeditions.18
These developments attest to the limits, during the years immediately
following wartime mobilization, of Moura’s contemporaneous vision of
gradual Indian assimilation. The prince regent had opened his 1808 dec-
laration by describing acts of almost unimaginable brutality. In particular,
it was cannibalism that made the war legal beyond contention. It was can-
nibalism, denounced in the interest of military conquest, that outweighed
evidence presented by men like Moura who believed the eastern Indians
could be incorporated by other means. As was perennially the case with
such accusations by the state, the monarch had little direct evidence to
support his charge that the Botocudo practiced routine anthropophagy.
Only after the declaration was issued did the war minister order the gov-
ernor of Minas Gerais to send to the royal court, under strict security,
one Botocudo male and one female “of the same species” to satisfy the
monarch’s “curiosity to see this cannibal race.”19 In the past, authorities
had used the fear of cannibalism to discourage illicit activity by colonists
in the eastern sertão. The prince regent’s action marked the end of that
era, which had been decades in coming, as changing events transformed
perceived Indian savagery from an asset into an outrage in the minds of
those who set policy for the region. Cannibalism came to play its more
customary role in colonial conquest as a representation of radical alter-
ity, a threat to the social order that must be eliminated.20

A Scientist’s View
By 1831, when the war on the Botocudo and other groups officially ended,
the military phase of conquest had already given way to less organized
and, importantly, less expensive methods. Eloquent diatribes condemn-
ing the use of military force — including those put forth by José Bonifácio
de Andrada e Silva, who was the leading statesman of independence-era
politics, and Baron Wilhelm Ludwig von Eschwege, who was a prominent
German scientist active in Minas Gerais — had helped secure the Crown’s
sympathy, if not the approval of all settlers and captaincy officials. Bon-
ifácio famously proposed a more tolerant approach to Brazil’s Indigenous

Elite Ethnography and Cultural Eradication 27

peoples, focusing on the revitalization of an Indian village system that
improved upon colonial precedents. Eschwege argued that the offensive
war policy served only to deepen the Indians’ hatred of colonists, while
encouraging the migration of settlers away from established urban centers
where their labor was sorely needed. Given that Eschwege carried out his
investigations at the request of the monarch and claimed to have person-
ally witnessed acts of cannibalism, it is his position that provides telling
final evidence concerning the ways in which authorities struggled over
how to interpret cultural practices that they deemed to be savage.21
Trained primarily as a geologist, mineralogist, and mining engineer,
Eschwege was not the most expert of the European naturalists who con-
tributed to an important body of early nineteenth-century literature on
the seminomads of eastern Brazil.22 Although he resided longer than most
in Brazil — between 1809 and 1821, primarily in Minas Gerais — more so-
phisticated studies were made by others, especially by Prince Maximilian
of Wied-Neuwied, another German naturalist who traveled there between
1815 and 1817, and by Auguste de Saint-Hilaire, a French botanist who did
so between 1817 and 1822.23 If we are to gauge the influence of such ex-
perts in representing Indigenous cultures, however, their shortcomings as
ethnologists are as important as their strengths. For instance, in a journal
entry written in 1816, Eschwege made notes about the smell of the human
subjects he had met in Brazil, observing that “the ammoniac sweat of the
black man is hardly repugnant compared to the repulsive, sweetish odor
of the Indian.” In another, he maintained, “there is no human uglier than
an old, nude Botocudo woman, saliva running endlessly down her lower
lip” as a result of the deformation caused by her wooden lip plug.24 Simi-
lar examples of pseudoscientific excess and ethnocentric conceit are to
be found in the works of all of these writers.
After examining much of the data they collected and comparing it to
local archival sources, I am convinced that allegations of routine cannibal-
ism among the eastern Indians reveal far more about the colonial imagi-
nation than about native conduct.25 It will likely never be known exactly
to what extent, or even definitively whether, the Botocudo, the Puri, and
other groups in the eastern forests engaged in this practice. Some ethnolo-
gists accused settlers and officials of exaggerating this claim; others gath-
ered evidence to support it. Among the first group, the skeptical Saint-

28 langfur
Hilaire speculated that many denunciations stemmed from “the ancient
hatred of the Portuguese for the Botocudo, hatred that one supposes has
been the origin of more than one calumny.” Traveling in northeastern Mi-
nas Gerais, he heard more than one story deploring the discovery of hu-
man remains. Among these stories was the version Moura had recounted
in Tocoiós, with certain details altered, about the gnawed bones of run-
away slaves. Saint-Hilaire found such evidence inconclusive. Colonists
could invent tales about any pile of bones; certain Botocudo, moreover,
had a vested interest in perpetuating settlers’ worst nightmares.26
Maximilian reached perhaps the most evenhanded conclusion, based
on the greatest amount of information. Regarding the Botocudo and Puri,
he wrote that “it is difficult to believe, as some affirm, that they eat human
flesh as a matter of preference.” He pointed out that against such a conclu-
sion stood the evidence that they kept alive at least some of the prison-
ers they captured. “There is no doubt, however, that out of revenge they
devour the flesh of their enemies killed in battle.”27 The German prince
offered additional details: “The Portuguese . . . universally assert that the
Puris feast on the flesh of the enemies they have killed, and there really
seems to be some truth in this assertion . . . but they would never confess
it to us. When we questioned them on the subject, they answered that the
Botocudos only had this custom. [An English traveler] relates that the In-
dians at Canta Gallo ate birds without plucking them. I never saw a sav-
age do this; they even carefully take out the entrails, and probably had
a mind to amuse the English traveller by shewing [sic] him some extra-
ordinary trick.”28
Such “tricks” likely figured into reports on eating humans. As had al-
ways been the case, the question of cannibalism proved to be a particu-
larly effective means of articulating the irreconcilable differences between
colonists and Indians when the former resorted to violence. To the ex-
tent that anthropophagy occurred, the practice probably also served the
natives when they sought to underscore such difference for their own
purposes. Considering the allegations by the Puri about Botocudo con-
duct, this seems to have held true not only between the Indians and the
Portuguese but also between separate Indigenous groups that were at
odds with one another. Furthermore, some intriguing evidence, includ-
ing Maximilian’s assessment of Puri motives in the presence of the Brit-

Elite Ethnography and Cultural Eradication 29

ish observer and Saint-Hilaire’s skeptical comments, suggests that if and
when the eastern Indians did practice cannibalism they were seeking to
give form to and thus exploit obvious European phantasms as opposed
to engaging in a culturally intact, precontact practice.29
A final passage by Maximilian complicates the matter still further:

That the Puris do in fact sometimes eat the bodies of their slaughtered
enemies is attested by various witnesses in this part of the country.
Father João, at [the Indian village of] St. Fidelis, assured us that he
had once on a journey to the river Itapemirim found in the forest the
body of a negro, who had been killed by the Puris, without arms and
legs, and round which a number of carrion vultures had assembled.
We have observed above that the Puris would never confess to us that
they eat human flesh; but after the authentic testimonies that have been
adduced, their own denial cannot have much weight.30

The anecdote clarifies that any ability to authenticate cannibalistic con-

duct depends on accounts in which experts assessing the facts at the time
rejected the reliability of the Indians themselves as authorities on their
own cultural practices.
The problem of obtaining reliable information is no less apparent in
Eschwege’s writings, despite the fact that, over the course of several
months, he traveled a significant distance into Botocudo territory, navi-
gating portions of the Doce River. His reputation for scientific zeal not-
withstanding, he could not suppress fundamental misgivings about the
character of his native subjects. His travels in Botocudo territory came
close to the height of the violence following the 1808 declaration of war.
He reached Minas Gerais in 1811, being charged with a range of official
duties by the Crown, including devising a plan for enhancing navigation
on the Doce River, authoring a new map of the captaincy, “establishing
friendly relations with the anthropophagous Botocudo,” as he put it, “and
presenting uniform plans to civilize them.”31 Like many other European
naturalists, Eschwege denounced the colonists’ abuses of the Botocudo;
but his writings leave little doubt about the preconceptions he brought to
the challenge of forging such relations.
Resorting to information drawn from a Jesuit text that was written

30 langfur
more than half a century earlier and using the name for the Botocudo
current during an earlier era, he wrote the following about the Aimoré In-
dians: These Indians “have always caused great harm” to the Portuguese,
he related. They lived in “inhospitable regions, where they constitute a
terrifying nation.” In the remote forests, they had forgotten their origi-
nal language and devised another to replace it, one that all other natives
found incomprehensible. They were “indomitable and savage,” feared even
by other Indians as “ferocious animals.” In one instance reminiscent of
the story Moura had recounted, a number of Botocudo had been taken
prisoner. Behaving like “savage animals in captivity,” they refused all food
and died. Eschwege further cited the Jesuit text in explaining that the
Botocudo lived “at war with all of the tribes that they encounter,” roam-
ing the forests in groups of several dozen bowmen, preferring ambushes
to open battles, attacking boldly when their enemies seemed weak, and
fleeing when they seemed valiant.32
On the subject of cannibalism, Eschwege returned to firsthand ex-
perience, speaking of exposing himself to the “great danger of . . . being
devoured by the Botocudo.” Although he escaped this fate, it was not
without seeing “abominable scenes and robust men reduced to slices of
roasted meat.” With evident repugnance, he claimed that he had once seen
this “horrible food, freshly captured . . . constituted of hands, arms, and
legs, barely scorched and not roasted.”33 As such, the usually meticulous
Eschwege gathered evidence to support the charge that the eastern Indi-
ans ate their enemies; yet these descriptions bore the characteristics not
of an eyewitness account but of the repetition of generic images of an-
thropophagi that were employed by some Europeans and debunked by
others, since colonization began in the sixteenth century.34
Despite his grim view of the Indians, Eschwege insisted that violent
conquest was not the best response. Particularly in unpublished policy
prescriptions that were sent directly to officials who were charged with
prosecuting the war, he softened his stance considerably, at times contra-
dicting the more lurid descriptions intended for his European readers.
He argued that, apart from their cannibalism, the Botocudo were not as
fierce as they were held to be and that the military effort should be aimed
not at conquest but at winning their friendship. They could be civilized
despite the dominant view to the contrary, a view to which his harsher

Elite Ethnography and Cultural Eradication 31

published observations surely contributed. In his correspondence with
Brazilian authorities, by contrast, he placed the current military mobiliza-
tion in the context of a long history of “fanaticism, ignorance, and cruelty”
wrought by the conquerors of the Americas. “To civilize with a sword in
hand is a contradiction,” he wrote. “The Indian has his customs; he has
his religion, whatever it may be, and it is very natural that he defends it
with his life, as long as he is not persuaded to do the contrary.” What was
required was time — time to convince the Botocudo that mutual trust was
possible, that opposing and sharply different peoples could find common
ground. They should be left to live in peace, allowed to practice their own
customs. Gradually introducing certain luxuries among them would pro-
duce needs that would lead them to civilization, even if such luxuries were
also capable of turning the civilized into barbarians. “Civilization will
increase with necessities to the point that there will be no other remedy
except to subject oneself voluntarily to our laws.” In a striking rhetorical
flourish, he went even further: progress toward a solution depended on
first convincing the natives that “we ourselves are Botocudos and canni-
bals.”35 One can hardly conceive of a statement more prophetic of a later
cultural relativism.
Eschwege proceeded to criticize the royal declaration of war against
individuals who continued to live “in the state of innocence.” He thought
the policy of attempting to conquer a territory as vast as the eastern for-
ests with a few hundred soldiers was absurd. Even more ridiculous was
the idea of populating this region with civilized inhabitants when much
of the rest of Minas Gerais had insufficient population. The effort would
only spread the current settler population even more thinly over the cap-
taincy, making it more difficult to govern and less productive, contrib-
uting to “the ruin” of the entire region, he warned. To the present point,
the war had amounted to a few divisions of soldiers penetrating twenty
or thirty leagues into the forests, killing a dozen or so Botocudo, and re-
turning to their barracks. The policy had served only to exacerbate the
Indians’ hostility. Meanwhile, the deployed divisions, as few and as dis-
tant from one another as they were, provided nothing but a false sense of
security to frontier settlers. He argued for a defensive position vis-à-vis
the Botocudo and a halt to new settlement in the area, until troops had
more success in opening roads and improving navigation.36

32 langfur
 When Eschwege wrote this condemnation of countering cannibals with
military might, the conquest of the frontier remained far from complete,
as his assessment attested. Violence between soldiers, settlers, and Indi-
ans persisted into the 1820s and well beyond. In some areas settlers still
fearing Botocudo aggression had failed to push more than two leagues
(thirteen kilometers) into the forests from the coast, even though maps
of the region then pictured what one cartographer had labeled as the new
“line of forts to repel the Indians.” Subsequent maps drafted as late as the
1860s still characterized extensive swaths of the Eastern Sertão as “un-
settled lands” and “little-known forests inhabited by indigenes.” By the
1880s the great bulk of the estimated remaining twelve to 14,000 Botocudo
were described by a contemporary anthropologist as “still in the savage
state, forming the most numerous and one of the fiercest wild tribes in
East Brazil” and still practicing cannibalism. The Botocudo remained in
control of substantial territory, especially to the north of the Doce River,
until the early twentieth century.37
If cannibalism had once provoked a declaration of war, it ultimately
outlasted the state’s will to prosecute that war. Nearly a decade after in-
dependence came in 1822, the government unceremoniously revoked the
declaration in 1831, although the official military offensive had largely
ended by 1811, corresponding with the criticism issued by Eschwege and
others. Milder legislation governing the treatment of the region’s Indians
had been adopted by 1823.38 The formation of dozens of hastily established
state-controlled aldeias, like the one Moura supervised at Tocoiós, pro-
vided one measure of the disruption that was caused by the war to the
Botocudo, whose population in the region extending from eastern Mi-
nas Gerais to the coast was estimated at 20,000 individuals during this
period. These villages brought together natives who had been forced out
of the forests. In exchange for food, shelter, consumer goods, and pro-
tection from armed assault, the Indians submitted to the village regime,
which included religious conversion and sedentary agricultural labor. Be-
tween 1800 and 1850 in the area bounded by the Doce and Pardo rivers,
seventy-three of these villages were formed and ultimately placed under
the centralized administration of the French émigré Guido Tomás Mar-
lière, another forceful critic of the military approach and a colleague of

Elite Ethnography and Cultural Eradication 33

Eschwege. Many of these villages would later evolve into townships that
survive to this day.39
These village Indians served as the primary native sources for the con-
clusions drawn by the European naturalists about the nature of the In-
digenous cultures of the Atlantic forests. With rare exceptions, in other
words, these Indians were no longer independent masters of their own
lives; rather, they were splintered, subjugated groups living in close prox-
imity to settler society. Colonized and detribalized Indians have gener-
ated a fascinating literature of their own, crucial for revising misleading
preconceptions that permeate the scholarly literature about so-called pure
or uncontacted Indians and their allegedly degraded brethren in Euro-
pean-controlled missions, villages, and towns.40 The point here is not to
dismiss as worthy subjects the Indians who provided nineteenth-century
ethnologists with information but simply to emphasize that their experi-
ence should not be mistaken for those who either earlier or concurrently
led autonomous lives.
This issue also helps place in proper perspective the work of the Eu-
ropean naturalists, who have long provided essential source material for
historians of Brazil.41 Shaping what came to be known and remembered
about the natives of Brazil’s coastal forests, these authors gathered eth-
nographic data of uneven quality, based on firsthand encounters, exist-
ing written sources, and, in some cases, mere hearsay. Although their
accounts generally evinced more interest in Indigenous cultures than doc-
uments that were drafted by colonists, they remained highly biased when
not overtly racist, crafted to appeal to an emerging European scientific
community as well as to a growing popular audience with an appetite for
vicarious foreign adventure. In the transatlantic representation of Brazil-
ian Indians as quintessential primitives, these authors succeeded admi-
rably. By midcentury, in no less iconic a work than Madame Bovary, for
instance, Gustave Flaubert could mention the Botocudo in passing, as-
suming readers would recognize the reference. At one point in that novel,
the pharmacist Monsieur Homais, disturbed by his wife’s unconventional
methods in raising their children, chastises her with the query, “Do you
intend to make Caribs or Botocudos out of them?”42 I know of no scholar
who has tied this passage to Eschwege, although his writings were cited
by other prominent European intellectuals such as Goethe and Marx.43

34 langfur
Flaubert certainly had access to texts by any number of other naturalists
active in nineteenth-century Brazil, including those of his countryman
Saint-Hilaire. While these travelers may have afforded Brazil’s Indians a
degree of renown, their quasi-scientific texts had clear limits when mea-
sured as a source of reliable ethnographic evidence.
Published in the form of travel journals and scientific treatises, these
accounts profoundly influenced how Brazilian elites thought about the
surviving Indigenous inhabitants of the new nation they aspired to lead
as it achieved independence from Portugal. Their findings, observations,
and opinions permeated discussions on the founding of the primary in-
stitutions that were responsible for accumulating, codifying, and promul-
gating knowledge concerning Indians. The most important of these were
the Royal Museum (soon to be called the National Museum or Museu
Nacional) and the Brazilian Historical and Geographic Institute (Insti-
tuto Histórico e Geográfico Brasileiro). Both were founded during the
early nineteenth century in Rio de Janeiro. The first was founded in 1818
by the author of the war declaration, who had by then ascended to the
throne as King João VI; the second, twenty years later under the regency,
which was then ruling the nation. The European naturalists gathered ar-
tifacts and specimens that swelled the museum’s initial holdings, includ-
ing a particularly valuable collection of gems and minerals contributed by
Eschwege. They submitted correspondence and other esteemed reports to
the institute. One text, drafted by the Bavarian naturalist Karl Friedrich
Philipp von Martius, won an essay contest sponsored by Emperor Pedro
II, the grandson of João VI, on how best to write the history of Brazil.44

It is beyond the scope of this essay to investigate in greater detail the sway
that was held by individual ethnographers over the institutionalization
of Brazil’s Indigenous past and present. My more modest objective is to
identify some of the primary currents contributing to this process as it
unfolded during the first half of the nineteenth century, directly in the
aftermath of the war waged against the eastern Indians. However persua-
sive the European experts may have been, their expertise was only part
of a larger context in which the colonial and, later, national state moved
forward with efforts to incorporate, by force when necessary, major re-

Elite Ethnography and Cultural Eradication 35

gions that were still controlled by native peoples. Alongside the contri-
bution of the emergent scientific community, the openly hostile position
of key members of the Luso-Brazilian elite who were instrumental in this
institutionalization process, including the king himself, must equally be
considered.
The evidence assembled here also demonstrates that the expert eth-
nographers were only the most widely known as opposed to the best-
informed observers of native peoples. On the remote frontier, as director
of the Tocoiós aldeia, José Moura had argued that the exchange of provi-
sions could lure hunter-gatherers into settled society without resorting
to violence. His vision of peaceful accommodation, driven by personal as
much as moral considerations, had not prevailed for the critical period
immediately following the declaration of war, except in the most limited
of forms. It is perhaps fitting that, as far as the sources reveal, he never
found his Golden Lagoon. Only after several years of state-sponsored ag-
gression did the Crown finally begin to search for an alternative policy
as it faced the financial strain on the royal treasury that had been caused
by the war. The notion of fostering material exchange with natives who
were condemned as cannibals resurfaced in the writings of Baron von
Eschwege, among other European naturalists, this time corresponding
with the state’s search for solutions other than its frustrated attempt at
military conquest.
By way of conclusion, in order to underline the contrasting ways in
which observers of Indigenous cultures and the state reacted to the radi-
cal alterity of the Atlantic forest dwellers, I want to return for a moment
to Moura’s encounters with the Botocudo of the Jequitinhonha River val-
ley. Several times during 1809, the year following the declaration of war,
small groups of a dozen or so natives again made contact with troops
in the forest and with Moura back in his settlement. They were always
treated hospitably, Moura reported, but he could not keep up with their
desire for metal tools. The Indians told him that they planned to return in
greater numbers, that they would bring their children in order to receive
more fishhooks and other gifts, and that they found the aldeia an agree-
able dwelling place, particularly since food was more readily accessible
there than in the forest. This exchange concluded with a startling revela-
tion: the Botocudo told Moura that “without doubt” they would settle

36 langfur
permanently at the aldeia if it were possible to convince their wives, who
they said “were very wild and feared they would be killed and eaten.”45
Was there a firm basis for this fear? Would the Botocudo be con-
sumed — not just metaphorically — if they entered settled society? Since
their ancestors first came into contact with the Portuguese along Bra-
zil’s Atlantic coastline in the sixteenth century, for a span of what now
amounted to three centuries, the Botocudo had witnessed almost every
imaginable act of violence. They had been the victims of various official
and unofficial military assaults that were designated as “just wars.” They
had been murdered and enslaved. They had watched from the woods as
Portuguese soldiers cut off the ears of their fallen clansmen as proof of
victory in battle. They had seen their women and children marched off
to white settlements in a longstanding slave trade that was expanding
at precisely the time that Moura was active on the Jequitinhonha River.
When these kinfolk disappeared, there was ample reason to suspect the
worst, especially if Botocudo practices with their own captives matched
the hideous reports that circulated in the region.46
Apart from the question of verifiable cannibalism is the apparently
incontestable truth that fears of Portuguese cruelty elicited a full range
of responses among the native forest dwellers.47 Among these responses,
if the statement Moura recorded is to be believed, some Botocudo were
struggling with a dilemma not unlike that of their colonial antagonists.
They were striving, that is, to convince wary members of their cohort that
the enemies they had encountered in the forest, while volatile and un-
trustworthy, could best be dealt with as other human beings, despite the
dread of being killed, dismembered, and potentially consumed. They were
attempting to interpret a radically different culture, which in the heat of
conflict they only imperfectly understood. One wonders how they might
have represented this culture in ethnographies, museums, and historical
societies of their own.

Notes
Abbreviations used in the endnotes are as follows: Arquivo Histórico do Exército,
Rio de Janeiro (AHEx); Biblioteca Nacional, Rio de Janeiro (bnrj); Seção de Man-
uscritos (sm); Documentos Biográficos (db); Library of Congress, Washington dc
(lc); Geography and Map Division (gmd); Revista do Arquivo Público Mineiro

Elite Ethnography and Cultural Eradication 37

 (rapm). I wish to thank Susan Sleeper-Smith for the opportunity to participate in
the Newberry Library Symposium, at which this chapter was first presented.
1. Hal Langfur, The Forbidden Lands: Colonial Identity, Frontier Violence, and the Per-
sistence of Brazil’s Eastern Indians, 1750–1830 (Stanford ca: Stanford University
Press, 2006), esp. chap. 1. Other recent contributions to the history of Brazil’s east-
ern Indians during this period include B. J. Barickman, “‘Tame Indians,’ ‘Wild
Heathens,’ and Settlers in Southern Bahia in the Late Eighteenth and Early Nine-
teenth Centuries,” Americas 51, no. 3 (1995): 326–27; Judy Bieber, “The Aldeia Sys-
tem Reborn: Botocudo Communities on the Espírito Santo–Minas Gerais Fron-
tier, 1808–1845” (paper presented at the Latin American Studies Association
Conference, Chicago il, September 24–26, 1998); Judy Bieber, “Shifting Frontiers:
The Role of Subsistence, Disease, and Environment in Shaping Indigenous Defi-
nitions of Frontiers in Minas Gerais, 1808–1850,” (paper presented at the Ameri-
can Historical Association Conference, San Francisco ca, January 2002); Maria
Hilda Baquiero Paraíso, “O Tempo da dor e do Trabalho: A Conquista dos Ter-
ritórios Indígenas nos Sertões do Leste,” (PhD diss., Universidade de São Paulo,
1998); and Maria Leônia Chaves de Resende, “Gentios brasílicos: Índios coloniais
em Minas Gerais setecentista,” (PhD diss., Universidade de Campinas, 2003).
2. The extent to which cannibalism in Brazil, the early modern Americas, and the
non-Western world in general constituted a reality or a myth that was propagated
to justify conquest and enslavement continues to divide anthropologists. Notable
contributions to this debate include W. Arens, The Man-Eating Myth: Anthropol-
ogy and Anthropophagy (New York: Oxford University Press, 1979); Frank Les-
tringant, Cannibals: The Discovery and Representation of the Cannibal from Colum-
bus to Jules Verne, trans. Rosemary Morris (Berkeley: University of California
Press, 1997); Francis Barker, Peter Hulme, and Margaret Iversen, eds., Cannibal-
ism and the Colonial World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998); Lau-
rence R. Goldman, ed., The Anthropology of Cannibalism (Westport ct: Bergin
and Garvey, 1999). See also Beth A. Conklin, Consuming Grief: Compassionate
Cannibalism in an Amazonian Society (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2001);
Barbara Ganson, The Guaraní under Spanish Rule in the Río de la Plata (Stanford
ca: Stanford University Press, 2003), 22–23; Alida C. Metcalf, Go-Betweens and
the Colonization of Brazil, 1500–1600 (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2005);
Neil L. Whitehead, Dark Shamans: Kanaimà and the Poetics of Violent Death
(Durham nc: Duke University Press, 2002), 191–95, 236–43; H. E. Martel, “Hans
Staden’s Captive Soul: Identity, Imperialism, and Rumors of Cannibalism in Six-
teenth-Century Brazil,” Journal of World History 17, no. 1 (2006): 61–69.
3. Except where otherwise indicated, the following account is recorded in José
Pereira Freire de Moura, “Notícia e Observaçoens Sobre os Índios Botocudos que
Frequentão as Margens do Rio Jequitinhonha, e se Chamao Ambarés, ou Ay-
morés,” Tocoiós, December 1809, and is reprinted in rapm 2, no. 1 (1897): 28–31.

38 langfur
 4. Raimundo José da Cunha Matos, Corografia Histórica da Província de Minas
Gerais (1837) (São Paulo: Editóra Itatiaia, 1981), 1:194, 2:168; Auguste de Saint-
Hilaire, Viagem pelas Províncias do Rio de Janeiro e Minas Gerais, trans. Vivaldi
Moreira (Belo Horizonte, Brasil: Editóra Itatiaia, 1975), 284n428.
5. José Pereira Freire de Moura identifies this corporal by name, Moura to the War
Minister, Tocoiós, January 5, 1810, reprinted in rapm 2, no. 1 (1897): 32.
6. Moura to War Minister, rapm: 31–34; José de Sousa Caldas, “Copia do Roteiro
para se Procurar a Lagoa Dourada,” n.d., reprinted in rapm 2, no. 1 (1897): 34.
The Lagoa Dourada described in these sources should not to be confused with
the municipal district bearing the same name in southern Minas Gerais, near the
city of São João del-Rei.
7. Moura to War Minister, rapm: 31–34. Moura identified the refugee groups in the
forests as the “Camanachos, Capoches, Pantimes, e Maquary.” I suspect he meant
the Kumanaxó, Kopoxó, Panhame, and possibly the Makoni. See Langfur, Forbid-
den Lands, 24.
8. Moura to War Minister, rapm: 31–34.
9. Moura to War Minister, rapm: 31–34.
10. José Pereira Freire de Moura, “Lista dos Homens q. Pedi de Auxilio ao Com.te do
Districto de S. Domingos,” reprinted in rapm 2, no. 1 (1897): 35–36; José Pereira
Freire de Moura, “Instruçoens q. se Darão ao Chefe da Bandeira q. for Procurar
a Lagôa-Dourada,” reprinted in rapm 2, no. 1 (1897): 35–36.
11. Diogo Pereira Ribeiro de Vasconcelos, Breve Descrição Geográfica, Física e Política
da Capitania de Minas Gerais (1807; repr., Belo Horizonte, Brasil: Fundação João
Pinheiro, 1994), 144–50, 156–57.
12. Vasconcelos, Breve Descrição Geográfica, 144–50, 156–57.
13. Vasconcelos, Breve Descrição Geográfica, 144–50, 156–57.
14. Vasconcelos, Breve Descrição Geográfica, 144–50, 156–57.
15. Langfur, Forbidden Lands, chap. 1.
16. “Carta Régia [royal edict] ao Governador e Capitão General da Capitania de
Minas Gerais Sobre a Guerra aos Indios Botecudos,” May 13, 1808, in Legislação
Indigenista no Século XIX: Uma Compilação (1808–1889), ed. Manuela Carneiro
da Cunha (São Paulo: Universidade de São Paulo, 1992), 57–60.
17. “Carta Régia,” in Cunha, Legislação Indigenista, 57–60.
18. Maximilian, Prinz von Wied, Viagem ao Brasil, trans. Edgar Süssekind de Men-
donça and Flávio Poppe de Figueiredo (Belo Horizonte: Editóra Itatiaia, 1989),
153; Wilhelm Ludwig von Eschwege, “Copia de Huma Carta Feita pelo Sargento
Mor Eschwege (Acerca dos Botocudos e das Divisões da Conquista) com Notas
pelo Deputado da Junta Militar, Matheus Herculano Monteiro,” n.p., 1811, Docu-
ment 66, codex 8, 1, 8, sm, bnrj. On the largest expedition, see X. Chabert, An
Historical Account of the Manners and Customs of the Savage Inhabitants of Brazil;
Together with a Sketch of the Life of the Botocudo Chieftain and Family (Exeter,

Elite Ethnography and Cultural Eradication 39

 UK: R. Cullum, 1823). On the war more generally, see John Hemming, Amazon
Frontier: The Defeat of the Brazilian Indians (Cambridge ma: Harvard University
Press, 1987), 92–3, 99–100; Maria Hilda Baquiero Paraíso, “Os Botocudos e sua
Trajetória Histórica,” in História dos índios no Brasil, ed. Manuela Carneiro da
Cunha (São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 1992), 417–23; Barickman, “‘Tame In-
dians,’” 359–65.
19. War Minister to the Governor, Rio de Janeiro, August 4, 1808, codex I-1, 1, 34, fol.
23v, Livros da Capitania, Minas Gerais, 1808–1811, AHEx.
20. See Langfur, Forbidden Lands, chap. 8; Beatriz Perrone-Moisés, “Índios Livres e
Índios Escravos: Os Princípios da Legislação Indigenista do Período Colonial
(Séculos XVI a XVIII),” in Carneiro da Cunha, História dos índios no Brasil, 115–
32; Jill Lepore, The Name of War: King Philip’s War and the Origins of American
Identity (New York: Knopf, 1998), 106–13.
21. Eschwege, “Copia de Huma Carta Feita pelo Sargento Mor Eschwege”; José Bon-
ifácio de Andrada e Silva, “Apontamentos para a Civilização dos Índios Bravos
do Ímpério do Brasil,” in O Pensamento Vivo de José Bonifácio (1823: repr., São
Paulo: Livraria Martins, 1961), 78–107. See also Manuela Carneiro da Cunha, “Pen-
sar os Índios: Apontamentos Sobre José Bonifácio,” in Antropologia do Brasil:
Mito, História, Etnicidade (São Paulo: Brasiliense / edusp, 1986), 165–73; Cunha,
prologue to Legislação Indigenista, 1–34; and David Treece, Exiles, Allies, Rebels:
Brazil’s Indianist Movement, Indigenist Politics, and the Imperial Nation-State
(Westport ct: Greenwood Press, 2000), 81–82.
22. The most relevant published discussions by Eschwege of Brazil’s eastern Indi-
ans appear in Wilhelm Ludwig von Eschwege, Brasil, Novo Mundo, trans. Domí-
cio de Figueiredo Murta, Coleção Mineiriana, Série Clássicos (Belo Horizonte,
Brasil: Fundação João Pinheiro, 1996); Wilhelm Ludwig von Eschwege, Pluto
Brasiliensis, trans. Domício de Figueiredo Murta, 2 vols. (Belo Horizonte, Bra-
sil: Editóra Itatiaia, 1979); Wilhelm Ludwig von Eschwege, Jornal do Brasil, 1811–
1817, ou Relatos Diversos do Brasil, Coletados Durante Expedições Científicas
(Belo Horizonte, Brasil: Fundação João Pinheiro, 2002). For two recent biographi-
cal sketches, see Friedrich E. Renger, “Eschwege, o Brasilianista,” in Eschwege,
Jornal do Brasil, 1811–1817, 11–17; and Douglas C. Libby, “Eschwege e os Primeiros
Anos no Brazil,” in Eschwege, Jornal do Brasil, 1811–1817, 19–24. See also Waldemar
de Almeida Barbosa, Barão de Eschwege (Belo Horizonte, Brasil: Casa de Es-
chwege, 1977).
23. In addition to Eschwege’s texts, the most relevant works by European naturalists
on Brazil’s eastern Indians include Maximilian, Viagem ao Brasil; Saint-Hilaire,
Viagem pelas Províncias; and Auguste de Saint-Hilaire, Viagem ao Espírito Santo e
Rio Doce, trans. Milton Amado (Belo Horizonte, Brasil: Editóra Itatiaia, 1974).
Hemming provides brief biographies and a helpful chronology of these and other
explorers, naturalists, and adventurers in Amazon Frontier, 483–511.

40 langfur
24. Eschwege, Brasil, Novo Mundo, 69; Eschwege, Jornal do Brasil, 1811–1817, 81.
25. I develop this argument at some length in Langfur, Forbidden Lands, chap. 7.
26. Saint-Hilaire, Viagem pelas Províncias, 217, 254.
27. Maximilian, Viagem ao Brasil, 126–27, 153, 313–15.
28. Maximilian, Prinz von Wied, Travels in Brazil in the Years 1815, 1816, 1817 (Lon-
don: Henry Colburn, 1820), 119.
29. Hal Langfur, “The Forbidden Lands: Frontier Settlers, Slaves, and Indians in Mi
nas Gerais, Brazil, 1760–1830,” (PhD diss., University of Texas, 1999), 304–5; John
M. Monteiro, “Entre o Etnocídio e a Etnogênese: Identidades Indígenas Coloni-
ais,” (paper presented at the Latin American Studies Association Conference, Dal-
las, Texas, March 27–29, 2003); Whitehead, Dark Shamans, esp. 242. For a dis-
cussion concerning practices of violence more generally, see Hal Langfur, “Moved
by Terror: Frontier Violence as Cultural Exchange in Late-Colonial Brazil,” Eth-
nohistory 52, no. 2 (2005): 255–89.
30. Maximilian, Travels in Brazil, 138.
31. Eschwege, Pluto Brasiliensis, 1:42.
32. Eschwege, Brasil, Novo Mundo, 238–40. On the longstanding debate over whether
the Aimoré and Botocudo were different names for the same ethnic group, see
Langfur, Forbidden Lands, 313n16.
33. Eschwege, Pluto Brasiliensis, 1:43; Eschwege, Brasil, Novo Mundo, 240n61. In an
earlier text, in contrast, Eschwege wrote that his knowledge of Botocudo canni-
balism was derived not from his own experience but from interviews with an
eyewitness. See Eschwege, Jornal do Brasil, 1811–1817, 81.
34. Comparable images, for example, appear on sixteenth-century maps of Brazil in
the figures of Indians roasting human body parts on spits. In his famous account
of life among the coastal Tupinambá in the 1550s, Jean de Léry noted the error of
such portrayals of native cannibalism, which he corrected from personal expe-
rience, detailing instead a process of boiling, butchering, and then roasting not
on spits but on a boucan, or a “big wooden grill.” See, for example, the figures
drawn by Diego Gutiérrez on the map Americae sive Quartae Orbis Partis Nova
et Exactissima Descritio, Antwerp, 1562, Lessing J. Rosenwald Collection, gmc, lc.
Jean de Léry, History of a Voyage to the Land of Brazil, trans. Janet Whatley (Berke-
ley: University of California Press, 1990), 79, 125–27.
35. Eschwege, “Copia de Huma Carta Feita pelo Sargento Mor Eschwege.”
36. Eschwege, “Copia de Huma Carta Feita pelo Sargento Mor Eschwege.”
37. Carlos Cezar Burlamaqui, “Esboço do Estado Atual das Comarcas de Porto Se-
guro e Ilheus,” July 5, 1820, I-28, 29, 11, sm, bnrj, Rio de Janeiro; A. H. Keane, “On
the Botocudos,” Journal of the Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ire-
land 13 (1884): 205, 207; Paraíso, “Os Botocudos,” 418–23; Hemming, Amazon
Frontier, chap. 18; Izabel Missagia de Mattos, “‘Civilização’ e ‘Revolta’: Os Botocu-
dos e a Catequese na Província de Minas,” (PhD diss., Universidade de Campinas,

Elite Ethnography and Cultural Eradication 41

 2002); Angelo Alves Carrara, Estruturas Agrárias e Capitalismo; Ocupação do
Solo e Transformação do Trabalho na Zona da Mata Central de Minas Gerais
(Séculos XVIII e XIX) (Mariana, Brasil: Editóra Universidade Federal de Ovro
Preto, 1999), 15; Paraíso, “O Tempo da dor.” The noted maps include John Luccock,
A Map of the Table Land of Brazil, London, 1820, reprinted in John Luccock, Notes
on Rio de Janeiro and the Southern Parts of Brazil; Taken During a Residence of Ten
Years in That Country, from 1808 to 1818 (London: Samuel Leigh, 1820), frontis-
piece; Carlos Krauss, “Mappa Geral das Colonias S. Leopoldina, S. Izabel, e Rio
Novo na Provincia do Espirito Santo,” Rio de Janeiro, 1866, gmd, lc; and Carlos
Krauss, “Mappa Geral da Provincia do Espirito-Santo relativo as Colonias e Vias
de Communicação,” Rio de Janeiro, 1866, gmd, lc. As their legends and notations
indicate, Krauss’s maps were designed to lure European immigrants to settle Bra-
zil’s eastern forests.
38. Hemming, Amazon Frontier, 365–84; Paraíso, “Os Botocudos,” 417–23; Barick-
man, “‘Tame Indians,’” 359–65; Bieber, “The Aldeia System Reborn.” Legislation
enacted in 1823 and 1824 created Indian directories and ordered directors to em-
ploy peaceful means to settle Indians into villages along the Doce River in Minas
Gerais and Espírito Santo. See “Decisão 22,” February 20, 1823; “Decisão 85,” May
24, 1823; and “Decreto 31,” January 28, 1824, in Cunha, Legislação Indigenista, 111–
14, 137.
39. Bieber, “The Aldeia System Reborn”; Paraíso, “Os Botocudos,” 418; Paraíso, “O
Tempo da dor.” The population estimate is from Guido Tomás Marlière, “Direção
Geral dos Índios de Minas Gerais,” rapm 12 (1907): 530; Oiliam José, Marlière, O
Civilizador (Belo Horizonte, Brasil: Editóra Itatiaia, 1958). Eschwege recounts his
1814 visit with Marlière at the São João Batista presidio in his Jornal do Brasil,
1811–1817, esp. 67–128.
40. See, for example, Muriel Nazzari, “Vanishing Indians: The Social Construction
of Race in Colonial São Paulo,” Americas 57, no. 4 (2001): 497–524; Resende, “Gen-
tios brasílicos”; Barbara A. Sommer, “Negotiated Settlements: Native Amazoni-
ans and Portuguese Policy in Pará, Brazil, 1758–1798” (PhD diss., University of
New Mexico, 2000); Maria Regina Celestino de Almeida, Metamorfoses Indíge-
nas: Cultura e Identidade nos Aldeamentos Indígenas do Rio de Janeiro (Rio de
Janeiro: Arquivo Nacional, 2002); Stuart B. Schwartz and Frank Salomon, “New
Peoples and New Kinds of People: Adaptation, Readjustment, and Ethnogenesis
in South American Indigenous Societies (Colonial Era),” in The Cambridge His-
tory of the Native Peoples of the Americas, ed. Stuart B. Schwartz and Frank
Salomon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), vol. 3, pt. 2, 443–501;
Serge Gruzinski, The Mestizo Mind: The Intellectual Dynamics of Colonization and
Globalization (New York: Routledge, 2002); Monteiro, “Entre o Etnocídio e a
Etnogênese.”
41. For the most prominent example of scholarship relying on travelers’ accounts as

42 langfur
 a basis for Brazilian Indigenous history, see Hemming, Amazon Frontier. Chap-
ters 5 and 18 of that work focus on the Botocudo and other groups of Brazil’s cen-
tral Atlantic coast. On nineteenth-century travel accounts with specific atten-
tion to women as both writers and subjects, see June E. Hahner, ed., Women
through Women’s Eyes: Latin American Women in Nineteenth-Century Travel Ac-
counts (Wilmington de: Scholarly Resources, 1998), xi–xxvi. See also Paulo Berger,
Bibliografia do Rio de Janeiro de Viajantes e Autores Estrangeiros, 1531–1900, 2d
ed. (Rio de Janeiro: seec, 1980); Regina Horta Duarte, “Facing the Forest: Euro-
pean Travellers Crossing the Mucuri River Valley, Brazil, in the Nineteenth Cen-
tury,” Environment and History 10 (2004): 31–58; Karen Macknow Lisboa, A Nova
Atlântica de Spix e Martius: Natureza e Civilização no Viagem pelo Brasil (1817–
1820) (São Paulo: Hucitec, 1997); Mary Louise Pratt, Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing
and Transculturation (London: Routledge, 1992).
42. Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary, trans. Mildred Marmur (New York: Signet
Classics, New American Library, 1964), 125.
43. João Antônio de Paula, “Eschwege, o Mundo e o Novo Mundo” in Eschwege, Bra-
sil, Novo Mundo, 17–20.
44. On Eschwege’s contribution to the National Museum, see Mário Guimarães Ferri,
preface to Pluto Brasiliensis, by Eschwege; and Eschwege, Jornal do Brasil, 1811–
1817, 393. On the historical and intellectual origins of the museum, see Jens An-
dermann, “Empires of Nature,” Nepantla: Views from South 4, no. 2 (2003): 283–
315; Maria Margaret Lopes, “O Local Musealizado em Nacional: Aspectos da
Cultura das Ciências Naturais no Século XIX, no Brasil,” in Ciências, Civilização
e Império no Trópicos, ed. Ald Heizer and Antonio Augusto Passos Videira (Rio
de Janeiro: Access, 2001), 77–96; Maria Margaret Lopes, “The Museums and the
Construction of Natural Sciences in Brazil in the 19th Century,” in Cultures and
Institutions of Natural History: Essays in the History and Philosophy of Science, ed.
Michael T. Ghiselin and Alan E. Leviton (San Francisco: California Academy of
Sciences, 2000); and Maria Margaret Lopes and Irina Podgorny, “The Shap-
ing of Latin American Museums of Natural History, 1850–1990,” Osiris, 2nd ser.,
15 (2000): 108–18. On European contributions to and influences on the Brazilian
Historical and Geographic Institute, including its scholarly journal, the most im-
portant in nineteenth-century Brazil, see Rollie E. Poppino, “A Century of the
Revista do Instituto Histórico e Geográfico Brasileiro,” The Hispanic American His-
torical Review 33, no. 2 (1953): 307–23, esp. 313–14. For Martius’s winning essay,
see Karl Friedich Philipp von Martius, “Como se Deve Escrever a História do
Brasil,” Revista do Instituto Histórico e Geográfico Brasileiro 6, no. 24 (1845): 381–
403. See also Heloisa M. Bertol Domingues, “Viagens Científicas: Descobrimento
e Colonização no Brasil no Século XIX,” in Heizer and Videira, Ciências, Civili-
zação e Império no Trópicos, 55–75; M. L. S. Guimarães, “História e Natureza em

Elite Ethnography and Cultural Eradication 43

 von Martius: Esquadrinhando o Brasil para Construir a Nação,” História, Ciên-
cias, Saúde: Manguinhos 7, no. 2 (2000): 389–410.
45. Moura, “Notícia e Observaçoens Sobre os Índios Botocudos,” rapm: 28–31.
46. On violence perpetrated against the Botocudo, see Langfur, Forbidden Lands,
esp. chap. 7. On the trade in Botocudo slaves along the Jequitinhonha River, see
Saint-Hilaire, Viagem pelas Províncias, 250. Botocudo perceptions of European
fears may have been honed by their own. When one of Brazil’s finest ethnologists
interviewed a handful of surviving Botocudo regarding their origin myths and re-
ligious belief in the mid-twentieth century, he learned that the Botocudo, too,
dreaded being consumed, not only by wild animals but also by cannibals. Curt
Nimuendajú, “Social Organization and Beliefs of the Botocudo of Eastern Brazil,”
Southwestern Journal of Anthropology 2 (1946): 93–115, esp. 115.
47. For extensive evidence that some Botocudo successfully navigated an amicable
or at least sustainable entrance into colonial society, see Langfur, Forbidden Lands,
chap. 6. See also Resende, “Gentios brasílicos.”

44 langfur
2
Ethnographic Showcases as
Sites of Knowledge Production
and Indigenous Resistance
zine magubane

The Ethnographic Exhibit Unveiled

The Intersection of Show Business and Racial Science
In May of 1853 the Athenaeum, a popular British magazine, carried an
item in the weekly gossip column about the popularity of human exhibi-
tions (also known as ethnographic showcases). The article noted that “a
man may travel a great deal without seeing so many varieties of the hu-
man race as are constantly to be seen in London.”1 Ethnographic show-
cases were the equivalent of human zoos wherein Indigenous people were
exhibited for the amusement of the English viewing public and for the
profitability of show owners and exhibitors as well as to satisfy the eviden-
tiary needs of ethnographers and anthropologists. This paper will discuss
the role that ethnographic showcases played in the production, dissemi-
nation, and ordering of knowledge about Africa and Africans. Although
ethnographic showcases played a key role in staging Africa and Africans
in ways that supported the aims of colonialism, the Africans who were
exhibited did not allow themselves to be silenced. By reading between
the lines of the historical record, it is possible to retrieve and reconstruct
African voices and opinions — about European society, Europeans, colo-
nialism, and conquest. Ethnographic showcases were immensely popular
in England during the nineteenth century. As displays, they were “living
nineteenth century versions of the early twentieth century museum di-
orama.”2 The showcases provided a unique degree of excitement and tit-
illation because they featured racial “others” in states of near or complete
undress performing the intimate rituals surrounding everything from

45
weddings to warfare. The ability to gawk and gaze, without restraint, was
something large numbers of the English viewing public found irresist-
ible. The following description of an ethnographic showcase, “The Zulu
Kaffirs at the St. George’s Gallery, Knightsbridge,”3 which appeared in the
Illustrated London News of May 28, 1853, gives some of the flavor of what
these shows were like:

This brand of wild but interesting savages are taking such high rank
among the metropolitan exhibitions of the present season, and repre-
sent so faithfully the manners, habits, and costume of their tribe, that
we give an Illustration of a scene in their performances. A number
of huts, such as they occupy, are placed upon the stage with an Afri-
can landscape in the background; and, one by one, the savages make
their appearance, engaged in the pursuits of their everyday life. After
a supper of meal, of which the Kaffirs partake with their large wooden
spoons, an extraordinary song and dance are performed, in which each
performer moves about on his haunches, grunting and snorting the
while like a pair of asthmatic bellows. . . . The scene illustrative of the
preliminaries of marriage and the bridal festivities might leave one in
doubt which was the bridegroom, did not that interesting savage an-
nounce his enviable situation by screams of ecstasy which convulse the
audience. . . . The exhibition is illustrated by some excellent panoramic
scenery, painted by Marshall, from sketches made in Kaffirland. The
various scenes in the entertainment are explained by an intelligent
young lecturer.4

South Africa was a particularly rich source of human subjects for eth-
nological exhibits. Indeed, a stroll through what the Illustrated London
News of June 12, 1847, called, “the ark of zoological wonders — Egyptian
Hall, Piccadilly,” yielded a view of, “extraordinary Bushpeople brought
from South Africa.”5 Visitors to Cosmorama, Regent Street, could see “a
very interesting exhibition of three natives of Southern and Eastern Af-
rica.”6 The sight of “Bushmen in their trees” and “the preliminaries of Kaf-
fir marriage and bridal festivities” entertained visitors to the St. George’s
Gallery in Knightsbridge. The latter came courtesy of a Mr. A. T. Calde-
cott, who returned from Natal with twelve Zulus in tow.7

46 magubane
 The popularity and availability of Africans from South Africa stemmed
in large part from the frontier wars that the British were waging against
African people in their quest for imperial dominance. The so-called Kaf-
fir Wars of 1835, 1847, 1851, and 1879, for example, were waged by the Brit-
ish with the sole objective of reducing the Xhosa people to impotence
through systematic invasion and confiscation of their lands and cattle. The
English were of the mind that “the only really effective way to reduce the
Xhosa to complete dependence was to burn his huts and kraals, to drive
off his cattle, to destroy his corn and other food, in short, to devastate his
country.”8
Ethnographic showcases both benefited from and were of benefit to
the task of imperial warfare. Exhibitors benefited from these wars be-
cause captives were often forced to become performers in these humili-
ating human zoos. The Illustrated London News, for example, encouraged
readers to attend “a very interesting exhibition of three natives of South-
ern and Eastern Africa.” The paper described one member of the exhi-
bition, Bourzaquai, as being, “a fine athletic fellow, twenty-five years of
age, of middle stature, with a copper-coloured skin, heightened in places
with red clay. . . . The Kaffir wields his light and sharp assegai, or lance,
with great dexterity. His prowess was often proved against the British in
the late war.”9 Likewise, the paper’s May 1853 edition reported that one of
the “Zulu Kaffirs” exhibited at St. George’s Gallery, Knightsbridge, was a
chief, Maxos, who was formerly “a soldier in one of King Panda’s regi-
ments. He is the son of a Zulu chief, under Chaka and Dingaan, who was
slain. . . . Maxos has also been in battle, and has been wounded several
times: an assegai wound above the left eye, and one in the back, are still
to be seen.”10
Ethnologists, phrenologists, craniometrists, and anthropologists, on
the other hand, benefited from having living specimens to examine and
upon whom to base their theories. The Phrenological Journal, for example,
carried a report about an exhibit during the Christmas holidays featur-
ing “six busts of the male Ojibbeway’s [sic] and the half breed interpreter,
who were recently in Manchester, exhibited in all the finery they love so
much and with their faces painted red and green as in life. . . . Near these
is a collection of national types of heads, including . . . Eskimo, Kaffir,
Negro, & etc.”11 Likewise, the Illustrated London News of June 12, 1847,

Ethnographic Showcases 47
reported on “The Bosjemans at the Egyptian Hall, Piccadilly.” The news-
paper noted that “ethnological characteristics of the Bosjemans, literally
‘Bushmen’ the public have been made acquainted with through the writ-
ings of Lichtenstein, Burchell, Campbell, Thompson, Pringle, and other
intelligent travelers in Africa.” The journal went on to observe, “the pres-
ent Exhibition is important, especially in illustration of Ethnology, which
is every year advancing in popularity.”12 The following year, the journal
of the Academy of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia announced that Dr.
Samuel Morton, an American physician who collected skulls from around
the world in order to compare the cranial capacities of different races, had
“offered some observations of the Bushman Hottentot boy, now in this
city, and who was brought here under the kind and paternal auspices of
Capt. Chase, United States Consul at the Cape of Good Hope.” The report
went on to describe the bodily proportions, skin color, facial features, and
hair texture of the young man, noting that “the mental and moral ques-
tions connected with the history of the youth, possess an extreme inter-
est, but can only be correctly judged after more extended inquiries.”13
Ethnology and phrenology were gaining so much popularity because
of their importance in justifying conquest by making it appear that civi-
lization and subjugation were two sides of the same coin. As the article
on the Egyptian Hall exhibit went on to explain, “The Bosjemans are a
branch of the Hottentot race, which separated from the rest long before
the establishment of the Europeans in Southern Africa, and took to a wan-
dering life in the northern and more inland parts of the country. They are
now beginning to be surrounded by civilization; and, consequently, they
must either become civilized themselves or become extinct.”14 An article
in the May 18, 1847, Times of London on the same exhibition noted that the
Africans were “in appearance little above the monkey tribe and scarcely
better than mere brutes of the field . . . mere animals in propensity and
worse than animals in appearance.” Ethnology was one arm of imperial
racial “science” that sought to assign, rank, and evaluate physical char-
acteristics. Thus, all descriptions of imperial exhibits included detailed
descriptions of the hair texture, skin color, and skull size of the captured.
These descriptions were always done with the intent of ascertaining how
far the exhibited deviated from the European “norm” and thus how low
they ranked in civilization. Thus, the description of the aforementioned

48 magubane
exhibit of the so-called Bushmen concluded by noting, “Altogether this
is an exhibition of unusual interest and value. The first effect, on enter-
ing the room, may be repulsive; but, the attentive visitor soon overcomes
this feeling, and sees in the benighted beings before him a fine subject for
scientific investigation, as well as a scene for popular gratification, and
rational curiosity.”15 The author went on to specifically reference the “ra-
cial logic” that underwrote the exhibition by contrasting the superiority
of the white exhibitor and the Africans he exhibited: “It was strange, too,
in looking through one of the windows of the room into the busy street,
to reflect that by a single turn of the head might be witnessed the two ex-
tremes of humanity — the lowest and highest of the race — the wandering
savage, and the silken baron of civilization. The portrait of the background
of the sketch, we should add, is that of the gentleman under whose care
the Bosjemans have been brought from the native country to form one
of our metropolitan sights.”16
Ethnographic showcases not only encouraged viewers to revel in their
racial superiority; they also invited ordinary English people to imagine
themselves as colonial overlords. The periodical Household Words, for
example, ran an article that encouraged prospective immigrants to the
cape to visit an ethnographic exhibition as a way of imagining running a
farm or large estate in the Cape Colony with dozens of African laborers
at their command.

Just go and look at the wagon exhibited by Cumming in his South Af-
rican Exhibition at Hyde Park Corner! Imagine such a machine, with
twelve or fourteen oxen attached to it by a long rope of plaited hide
(called a treck-tow) attached to the pole, and to which are fastened
the yokes of the oxen. Then a fancy little Hottentot lad, very much like
one of the Bushmen lately exhibited in London (but, perhaps, hardly
so handsome) leading the two front oxen by a strip of hide fastened to
their horns (called a reim) and a full grown Hottentot seated on the
driving seat, in the front of the wagon, with an enormous whip in his
hands. . . . Your Hottentots soon collect fuel, the wagon is drawn up
close by a mimosa or some other bush, a fire is lighted, the kettle set
up to boil, the coffee prepared, the steaks cooked in a frying pan, and
perhaps some hot cakes made of meal baked for you.17

Ethnographic Showcases 49
 Thus, the popularity of ethnographic showcases and the progress of
the British Empire were always closely linked. Ethnographic exhibitions,
alongside travel and evangelical texts, were key means whereby images of
empire became a part of the English people’s everyday reality.18 Accord-
ing to Veit Erlmann, ethnographic showcases incited a sort of “spectato-
rial lust,” through which “empire and unreality [came to] constitute each
other in ways rooted in the deepest layers of modern consciousness.”19

The Production of Reality Effects in the Ethnographic Showcase

A cursory glance through advertisements for ethnographic exhibitions
demonstrates the degree to which these showcases produced meanings in
the public sphere that, although they claimed to convey the real, were far
more concerned with repressing the real in favor of the pursuit of verisi-
militude. The Illustrated London News, for example, reported, “the Zulus
must be naturally good actors; for a performance more natural and less
like acting is seldom if ever seen upon any stage.”20 Earlier, in an article
on the Bushmen at Egyptian Hall, the Illustrated London News noted that
one particular member of the exhibition “would make a capital melodra-
matic actor.”21
The extent to which exhibitors manipulated reality in order to put on
an entertaining show led missionary David Livingstone to complain that
“the Bushmen specimens brought to Europe have been selected, like cos-
termongers’ dogs, on account of their extreme ugliness; consequently Eng-
lish ideas of the whole tribe are formed in the same way as if the ugliest
specimens of the English were exhibited in Africa as characteristic of the
entire British nation.”22 It was precisely the privileging of verisimilitude
that made many evangelicals (who prided themselves on the authentic-
ity of the representations of Africans) see these showcases as inimical to
their aims, despite the fact that the entertainment industry relied upon,
and oftentimes praised, their work.
Lectures from evangelical itinerants like Robert Moffatt and David Liv-
ingstone drew extremely large crowds of supporters, particularly from the
middle classes, who eagerly assembled at mission halls and public the-
aters to be entertained by tales of adventure from Calcutta to the cape
coast. For example, upon his return from South Africa, missionary Rob-
ert Moffat was so in demand that he “was hurried from town to town with

50 magubane
scant opportunity for a moments rest.”23 When David Livingstone toured
England in 1857, there was an “anxiety on the part of all classes to see and
hear him.”24 When missionaries returned with African or Asian converts,
they were even more enthusiastically received. In 1837, missionaries John
Philip and John Read toured England accompanied by John Tzatzoe and
Andreas Stoffles, two “native Christians” from South Africa. “On one oc-
casion the two Africans were invited to spend an evening with the stu-
dents at Highbury College — vivid recollections of which remain in many
minds.”25
Although ethnographic showcases afforded people of all classes a
glimpse at what the Illustrated London News called “savages engaged in
the pursuits of their everyday life,” class politics provided a set of rules
about “looking.”26 For the most part, the wealthy were the privileged sub-
jects who took part in this new synthesis of knowledge and power. The ex-
tent to which the upper classes — dowagers, belles, and gentlemen — were
the privileged viewing subjects is aptly demonstrated in the following
satiric poem, entitled “Thoughts on the Savage Lions of London,” which
appeared in Punch magazine.

Kaffirs from Borioboola, or somewhere —

There are delighting the civilized world Belles from
Belgravia in afternoons come there;
Thither the fairest of May-fair are whirl’d.
Dowagers craving for something exciting,
Gentlemen blasé with Fashion’s dull round,
Those who find novelty always delighting,
With those dear Kaffirs may daily be found.27

The poem can be seen as simultaneously explaining popular attitudes

toward these exhibitions and providing a guide for the attitude the well-
heeled should adopt. The opening line of the poem immediately estab-
lishes the propriety of adopting an attitude of studied indifference to the
particulars of what one is viewing. However, the extensive press cover-
age of the Kaffir Wars in South Africa, the existence of numerous ethno-
graphic exhibitions such as the one described, and the frequent public
lectures by returned missionaries made it highly unlikely that the aver-

Ethnographic Showcases 51
age person — particularly if they were wealthy and well educated — would
not know where the so-called Kaffirs hailed from. The poem underscores
that, ultimately; the particulars of where these black bodies came from
and how they happened to end up in England is unimportant. They could
have been from South Africa, West Africa, or even the fictitious Borio-
boola — what really matters is that they have been brought to Europe, in-
corporated into its theatrical machinery, and rendered up as objects to
be viewed with “delight” by the “civilized world.”
Paradoxically, this studied attitude of indifference to particularity —
especially the particularity of individual African lives — had, as its con-
comitant, a cultural obsession with ethnographic detail, which produced
the effect of direct and immediate experience with Africa. As Strother
explains, the exhibitors self-consciously sought to “solicit the attendance
of the well-educated, those familiar with travelogues,” as part of their
publicity strategy.28 Indeed, even a cursory glance through the public-
ity literature of the time demonstrates the degree to which ethnographic
showcases were intimately linked to the travel and evangelical writings
explored in the previous chapter. An exhibition of five “Bushmen” at Ex-
eter Hall, for example, was accompanied by a lecture from Robert Knox,
an army surgeon who spent five years on the South African frontier, that
was advertised as being particularly addressed to those interested in “the
Kaffir war, in the great question of race, and the probable extinction of
the Aboriginal races, the progress of the Anglo-African empire, and the
all-important questions of Christian mission and human civilization in
that quarter of the globe.”29

Subjects and Objects in the Ethnographic Showcase

How do we account for this curious paradox whereby the viewing subjects
were expected to be familiar with ethnographic detail yet adopt a studied
attitude of indifference about particularity? It turns out that this paradox
actually can tell us quite a lot about what Mitchell terms “a method of
order and truth essential to the peculiar nature of the modern world.”30
The ways in which ethnographic showcases ordered and presented the
other demanded the viewing subject adopt certain attitudes — both to the
world and to him or herself. First, that they be “curious” about the world
in a very particular way — in such a way as to “contemplate” Africa and

52 magubane
Africans, even as they turned away, to immerse oneself and yet still stand
apart. “The curiosity of the observing subject was something demanded
by a diversity of mechanisms for rendering things up as its object.”31 This
mode of addressing objects in the world inculcated a particular way of
viewing the world and the individual’s relationship to it. “Ordinary people
were beginning to live as tourists or anthropologists, addressing the ob-
ject world as the endless representation of some further meaning or real-
ity.”32 Thus, the world itself came to be “conceived and grasped as though
it was an exhibition.”33
Ethnographic showcases were a means of engineering the real, whereby
everything came to be organized, like in an exhibition, to recall some
larger meaning beyond it. This attitude toward the world, in turn, engen-
dered a particular conception of and about reality. As Mitchell explains,
reality came to take on a “citationary nature” whereby what is represented
is, “not a real place, but a set of references, a congeries of characteristics,
that seems to have its origin in a quotation, or a fragment of a text, or a
citation from someone’s work . . . or some bit of previous imagining or
an amalgam of all these . . . it is the chain of references that produces
the effect of the place.”34 The world, like the exhibit, came to be nothing
more than a collection of objects that recalled a meaning beyond reality.
In other words, the “characteristic cognitive move of the modern subject”
was to transfer onto objects “the principles of one’s relation to [them]”
and to conceive of them as “totally intended for cognition alone.”35

The Exhibited Speak Back

The Contradictions of the Cash Nexus
The men who ran the ethnological exhibits faced a curious paradox. The
express purpose of their exhibits was to depict Africans as perpetual prim-
itives who were doomed to remain mired in their own barbarism absent
the benevolence of British explorers and missionaries. The showmen were
traffickers in human difference; the more graphic and shocking the dif-
ference, the more profitable the show. However, they wanted exhibits to
appear as not purely exploitative. As early as 1810, at the time of the exhi-
bition of Saartjie Baartman, the “Hottentot Venus,” exhibitors had come
under legal and moral scrutiny. The African Association for Promoting
the Discovery of the Interior of Africa sued Baartman’s captor and exhibi-

Ethnographic Showcases 53
tor, Henrik Cezar, on her behalf. As Zachary Macauley stated in the affi-
davit filed on her behalf, his purpose was to determine “whether [Baart-
man] was made a public spectacle with her own free will and consent or
whether she was compelled to exhibit herself.”36 Those who were opposed
to her exhibition debated less about whether her confinement represented
a moral blight than whether she was owned by someone else, and hence
subject to forced exhibition, or if she belonged to herself, and was thus
acting freely. The Report of the King’s Bench reported, “the decency of the
exhibition was not brought into question; it appearing that the woman
had proper clothing adapted to the occasion.”37 Rather, the case turned
on whether “she had been clandestinely inveigled from the Cape of Good
Hope, without the knowledge of the British Governor, (who extends his
peculiar protection in nature of a guardian over the Hottentot nation un-
der his government, by reason of their general imbecile state) and that she
was brought to this country and since kept in custody and exhibited here
against her consent.”38 The debate over the abolition of slavery provided
the critical backdrop to the court case as the London Morning Chronicle
of October 12, 1810, reported: “The air of the British Constitution is too
pure to permit slavery in the very heart of the metropolis, for I am sure
you will easily discriminate between those beings who are sufficiently de-
graded to show themselves for their own immediate profit where they act
from their own free will and this poor slave.”
Thus, the proprietors of ethnographic showcases were always quick to
stress that the exhibited individuals were doing so of their own accord,
that all transactions had the blessing and consent of the colonial authori-
ties, and that the terms were favorable for all. For example, the exhibit at
Egyptian Hall was described in these positive terms: “The curious crea-
tures at the Egyptian Hall are grouped upon a raised stage at one end of
the large room; with a flat scene, set vegetation, handing wood and etc.
from the country of the Bushmen, cleverly painted and arranged by Mr.
Johnstone. . . . The mother sat nursing her bantling; and the other men
sat smoking at the opposite corner. . . . The mother occasionally left her
child to receive money from the spectators, and kissed with fervour the
donor’s hand. The man, too, gratefully received a cigar, but did not leave
off smoking his hemp-seed to enjoy the higher flavoured luxury.”39 The
May 28, 1853, edition of the Illustrated London News reported this:

54 magubane
 These Kaffirs (twelve in number) have been brought from Natal by Mr.
A. T. Caldecott, who, for this purpose, memorialized the colonial au-
thorities at Natal for permission to ship the natives; which application
was complied with, on Mr. Caldecott having entered into a recogni-
zance, himself in the sum of £500, and two sureties in £250 each, that
such natives were willing to accompany him to England and would be
properly treated on the voyage, duly reported and, if required, pro-
duced to the Secretary of State for the Colonies, and finally brought
back to Durban. And the natives were further, previous to their em-
barking, taken before the diplomatic agent to testify their full and vol-
untary concurrence.40

Three years earlier, the September 14, 1850, edition of the paper had taken
care to assure readers that the “Kaffir man,” “Amaponda woman,” and
“Zoolu [sic] chief ” who were being exhibited at Cosmorama, Regent
Street, had been “brought to this country by Mr. Cawood, subject to a
bargain made with them before leaving the Cape, with the consent of
Sir Harry Smith, the Governor, and their chief. The agreement is for two
years. Their behavior, since their arrival, has been unexceptional; they
seem pleased with the change, and enjoy English living, giving prefer-
ence to mutton as food.”41
The lopsided nature of these “agreements” did not escape the notice of
the editors of the satirical magazine, Punch, which ran a story called “An
Affair with the (Knightsbridge) Caffres” in its October 8, 1853, edition.
The story takes a wry look at what might happen if the exhibited took it
upon themselves to strike out on their own as showmen, absent the “help”
of European agents or intermediaries.

We thought we had heard enough of the rows with the Caffres at the
Cape; but there have lately been some Caffres cutting the oddest ca-
pers at Hyde Park corner. It seems that a noble Caffre chieftain had en-
tered into an agreement for himself and a few of his tribe to howl, leap,
brandish tomahawks, and indulge in other outlandish freaks, coming
under the head of native customs for a year and a half, during which
period the howlings, tomahawkings, &c., are to be the exclusive prop-
erty of an individual who has speculated on the appetite of the British

Ethnographic Showcases 55
 public for yells and wild antics. . . . The Chief was seized with a gener-
ous desire to make a gratuitous exhibition of himself and, accordingly,
nkuloocollo — as the chief calls himself — took a turn in the Park on
Thursday with four of his fellow countrymen.
The proprietor of the yells and native dances, fearful that the gilt
would be taken of the gingerbread complexions of the Caffres if their
faces were made familiar to the public in Hyde Park, sent a policeman
to take the chief into custody. nkuloocollo, however, who seems
to take the thing coolly as well as cavalierly — or Caffrely — refused to
walk in, but stood outside the door, rendering it hopeless than any-
body would pay a half crown to “walk up,” when the chief was to be
seen “alive, alive” for nothing at the threshold. The proprietor endea-
voured to push the chief inside, but the chief gave a counter-push.
There seemed to be a probability of a war-whoop being got up at the
expense, rather than for the benefit of the enterprising individual who
engaged the whoopers. . . . Upon this the chief was taken into custody
and charged with an assault. . . . The complaint, was, however, most
properly told by the Magistrate that the Caffres cannot, by law, be re-
strained from going wherever they please. . . . If a Caffre chooses to
take a walk in the park, or anywhere else, he has a perfect right to do
so, if he does not break the law by tomahawking the public or any other
“native” eccentricity.42

The point of the ethnographic exhibit was to reinforce the idea that
“geographic distance across space [can be] figured as a historical differ-
ence across time,” and, further, that “imperial progress across the space
of empire is . . . a journey backward in time to an anachronistic moment
of prehistory.”43 The Africans exhibited at Cosmorama, Regent Street, for
example, were described thus: “In common with most Africans, they have
no notion of time, cannot tell their own age, or fix a date for any recent
event in their lives.”44
However, the seamlessness of this narrative was continually interrupted
by the exigencies of exhibiting, which required that Africans be recog-
nized as what Johannes Fabian calls “coevals.” Fabian uses the term “denial
of coevalness” to describe the difficulties that arise when anthropologists
must use evidence gleaned from “native informants” to make legitimate

56 magubane
their claims that Indigenous people inhabit not only a different geographic
space, but also a different temporal zone.

As a discipline of practices of making and representing knowledge, an-

thropology is marked by a contradiction. Anthropology has its founda-
tion in ethnographic research, inquiries which even hard nosed prac-
titioners . . . carry out with communicative interaction. The sharing of
time that such interaction requires demands that ethnographers rec-
ognize the people whom they study as their coevals. However, and this
is where the contradiction arises — when the same ethnographers rep-
resent their knowledge in teaching and writing they do this in terms
of a discourse that consistently places those who are talked about in a
time other than that of the one who talks. I call the effect of such strat-
egies the ‘denial of coevalness’.45

Thus, the same article that described the exhibited Africans as having
no sense of time also admitted, “the Kaffir, Bourzaquai, is quickest of ap-
prehension and has already picked up some words of English.”46 Georges
Cuvier, the same scientist who described Saartjie Baartman as looking
and acting like a monkey, also had to admit in the Discours sur les Revo-
lutions du Globe that “she spoke tolerably good Dutch, which she learned
at the Cape . . . also knew a little English . . . [and] was beginning to say
a few words of French.”47

The Contradictions of Coevalness

The tensions introduced into European narratives by the contradictions
of coevalness thus provide a space for us to retrieve and reconstruct Af-
rican voices and opinions — about European society, European religion,
colonialism, and conquest that differed markedly from the narratives pre-
sented by the English. For example, one thing that becomes immediately
apparent in these descriptions is the degree to which the purveyors of the
shows, despite their repeated assurances that the Africans in their midst
were happy and content, were continually confronted with evidence of
their captives’ dissatisfaction. The article about the “Bosjemans at the
Egyptian Hall, Piccadilly,” for example, after describing the exhibited as
“grateful,” went on to observe, “During our visit, the party went through a

Ethnographic Showcases 57
variety of performances illustrative of their customs in their native coun-
try. Their whoops were sometimes startling. They seemed more than once
to consider the attentions of a spectator as an affront, and were only stayed
by their attendant from resentment.”48 Three decades earlier, the affida-
vits filed in the Saartjie Baartman case likewise indicated that there were
“apparent indications of reluctance on her part during her exhibition.”49
The affidavit of Mr. McCartney, the Secretary of the African Association,
which sued her captors on her behalf, reported that Baartman “frequently
heaved deep sighs, seemed anxious and uneasy, and grew sullen when she
was ordered to play some rude instrument of music.”50
Ota Benga along with a troupe of his fellow Batwa from the Congo were
put on display at the 1904 St. Louis World’s Fair and later in the Bronx
Zoo. Although their captors had described them as happy and satisfied
upon their arrival, the July 19, 1904, edition of the St. Louis Dispatch soon
carried the shocked headline “Enraged Pygmies Attack Visitor”: “The
African pygmies of the Fair took to the warpath late yesterday because a
visitor took a photograph of one of them and would not indemnify them
to the extent that they deemed meet. They gave the photographer a scare
he will remember. . . . They attacked him and were handling him roughly
and were attempting to take everything he had away from him when whit
men rescued him.” Two years later, the New York Daily Tribune of Sep-
tember 26, 1906, reported, “Ota Benga, the pygmy at the New York Zoo-
logical Gardens, the Bronx, made a desperate attempt to kill one of the
keepers yesterday afternoon with a knife.”
The refusal to speak was yet another powerful method of resistance.
Captured warriors were particularly likely to use silence as a way of main-
taining their dignity in the midst of extremely dehumanizing conditions.
The Illustrated London News described how Nonsenzo, one of the Zulu
warriors exhibited at St. George’s Gallery, Knightsbridge, refused to en-
gage his captors: “He stands six feet without shoes, and is a very powerful
man. He has a violent temper if excited. He left his country nine months
ago. He talks little. Though he appears to be a man who has seen and
done much in his time, he will never speak of his past life.”51 That same
year, the February 15 edition of the paper described how another group
of subjects “sat quietly smoking and laughing while our correspondent
sketched them. . . . Their deportment was easy and unconstrained, and

58 magubane
they seemed to place considerable confidence in their European captors,
although they were firm in refusing to give any information calculated to
injure the cause of their country.”52 Likewise, the St. Louis Dispatch of Au-
gust 13, 1904, reported the following about the Anthropological Athletic
Meet: “Thirteen different tribes were represented in the second Anthro-
pological athletic meet at the Stadium Friday afternoon. All the contes-
tants performed in their native costumes. . . . Geronimo, the old Apache
chief, was on the field but took no part in the sports. He leaned silently
against the track-rail looking on but gave no other sign that he was at all
interested.”
When individuals who were treated as objects within the purview of
the ethnographic showcase were able to master English, it had a trans-
formative effect. They were heard and their opinions were taken much
more seriously. For example, Martinus and Flora, two “Earthmen” from
South Africa, distinguished themselves by performing in English — having
learned the language when they lived with a British family. As Lindfors
explains, “audiences were most impressed by their mastery of a ‘civilized’
tongue. One provincial paper reported that ‘the most interesting part of
the séance is found to consist in the spritely conversation they carry on
with their visitors’.”53 The English were often shocked to find that Africans
and Native Americans held less positive feelings about them. The chief of
the Ojibwes, who were exhibited in London, declined the efforts of the
London City Missions missionaries to convert them because of the pov-
erty and distress they had witnessed in London.

When we first came over to this country, we thought we should find

the white people all good and sober people, but as we travel about we
find this was all a mistake. . . . We see hundreds of little children with
their naked feet in the snow, and we pity them, for we know that they
are hungry, and we give them money every time we pass by them. In
four days, we have given twenty dollars to hungry children — we give
our money only to children. We are told that the fathers of these chil-
dren are in ale-houses where they sell fire-water, and are drunk. . . .
You talk about sending black coats among the Indians. Now we have
no such poor children among us. We have no such drunkards or peo-
ple who abuse the Great Spirit.54

Ethnographic Showcases 59
 In the early 1890s a troupe of South African singers toured London. Al-
though not part of an ethnographic showcase, per se, they were required
to dress in traditional African attire, even though they were mission edu-
cated and did not dress in this way at home. The Christian Express of No-
vember 2, 1891, complained, “one thing we do regret, the adoption, almost
exclusively on the stage, of the old barbarian dress none of them ever wore
at home.” Thus, the conventions of the ethnographic showcase strongly in-
formed how their managers staged their shows. For example, even though
the choir members were described as having come to the group already
speaking English and Dutch, with one young woman conversant in five
languages, the Ludgate Monthly still described their achievements as in-
authentic, arguing that “Kaffirs are very fond of mimicry, and are always
ready to pick up anything to imitate.”55
Further, the missionaries who arranged the European tour and brought
the group together saw themselves as having the right to exert absolute
and complete control over the singers, their lives, their destinies, and their
identities. Mr. Letty, who organized the group, was quoted as saying, “We
had plenty of applications, but had to be very careful in the selection. We
wanted representatives of the principal southern tribes, people with good
moral characters, good education, good musical ability, and as far as pos-
sible good looking as well.”56 A female member of the choir expressed sen-
timents at odds with her white benefactors when she was asked what she
would like to say to the English people “on behalf of her race,” she agreed
that her ultimate goal was to build a school for Africans in South Africa.
However, her vision of what that school would do and the role it would
play in African lives was very different from that of most missionaries,
who saw education as serving to further integrate Africans into European
society and commerce (often in a position of near permanent inferiority).
She saw schools as providing the foundation for Africans’ social and eco-
nomic independence: “Help us to found the schools for which we pray,
where our people could learn to labour, to build, and to acquire your skill
with their hands. Then could we be sufficient unto ourselves. Our young
men would build us houses and lay out our farms, and our tribes would
develop independently of the civilization and industries which you have
given us.”57 She went on to echo the Ojibwe chief by disputing one of the
most fundamental tenets of missionary ideology and the civilizing mis-

60 magubane
sion — mainly that the Europeans had been an unequivocally positive in-
fluence on African culture by requesting that the English “shut up the
canteens and take away the drink.” She also made an indirect reference to
the hypocrisy of British colonialism when she asked, “can you not make
your people at the Cape as kind and just as your people are here? That is
the first thing and the greatest.”58

The Return of the Look

In her book Black Body, Radhika Mohanram makes the important point
that there is a “metonymic link” between surveillance and knowledge:
“If knowledge formation is Panoptic in structure — the discipline which
comes with being always visible — so also is colonial identity predicated
on vision. Within the structure of surveillance the one who sees is invis-
ible, but the one who is seen, the colonized in this case, is always subject
to scrutiny.”59
The complex power dynamics that surrounded the phenomena of look-
ing, observing, and critically evaluating are aptly expressed by bell hooks,
who writes, “To be fully an object then was to lack the capacity to see or
recognize reality. These looking relations were reinforced as whites cul-
tivated the practice of denying the subjectivity of blacks (the better to
dehumanize and oppress), of relegating them to the realm of the invis-
ible. . . . To look directly was an assertion of subjectivity, equality.”60 Aptly
capturing the arrogance of the white subject in the face of the “return of
the look,” hooks writes, “Racist thinking perpetuates the fantasy that the
Other who is subjugated, who is subhuman, lacks the ability to compre-
hend, to understand, to see the working of the powerful. . . . In white su-
premacist society, white people can ‘safely’ imagine that they are invis-
ible to black people since the power they have historically asserted, and
even now collectively assert over black people, accorded them the right
to control the black gaze.”61
Despite the fact that the power relations, which had adhered in the
ethnographic showcase, dictated that the Indigenous people take on the
role of silenced objects, subject to the whims of the European spectator,
they found ways to refuse this dehumanizing role. Those denied the op-
portunity to express themselves verbally used their bodies, facial expres-
sions, and other nonverbal forms of communication to show that they

Ethnographic Showcases 61
were sentient beings who knew how humiliating their circumstance was
and who wished to live differently. Those who mastered the language and
mores of English society were more direct. They challenged the supremacy
of English culture and values. They demonstrated their awareness of the
shortcomings of English society. And they, like their silenced brethren,
insisted on the necessity of independence and self-determination. Others
chose the path of silence — showing their displeasure through a deliber-
ate refusal to engage. And still others, like Ota Benga, chose death. Ten
years after his arrival in America, Benga committed suicide in Lynchburg,
Virginia.62 Appearing shortly after Benga’s death, an article in the July 16,
1916, edition of the New York Times explained, “Finally the burden of the
white man’s civilization became too great for him to bear, and he sent a
bullet through his heart. . . . [H]e was one of the most determined little
fellows that ever breathed . . . a shred little man who preferred to match
himself against civilization rather than be a slave.”

Notes
1. Gossip, Athenaeum, May 1853, 650.
2. Anne Fausto-Sterling, “Gender, Race, and Nation: The Comparative Anatomy of
‘Hottentot’ Women in Europe, 1815–1817,” in Deviant Bodies, ed. Jennifer Terry
and Jacqueline Urlan (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1995), 32.
3. Kaffir is an Arabic term meaning infidel and became a term of racial abuse simi-
lar to nigger in the American vernacular.
4. “The Zulu Kaffirs at the St. George’s Gallery, Knightsbridge,” Illustrated London
News, May 28, 1853.
5. Illustrated London News, June 12, 1847, 381.
6. Illustrated London News, September 14, 1859, 236.
7. Illustrated London News, May 28, 1853, 410.
8. Bernard Magubane, The Political Economy of Race and Class in South Africa (New
York: Monthly Review Press, 1979), 38.
9. Illustrated London News, September 14, 1850, 236.
10. Illustrated London News, May 28, 1853, 410.
11. “The Ojibbeway Indians at Manchester,” Phrenological Journal 78 (1844): 210.
12. Illustrated London News, June 12, 1847, 381.
13. Proceedings of the Academy of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia 4 (1848): 5–6.
14. Illustrated London News, June 12, 1847, 381.
15. Illustrated London News, June 12, 1847, 381.
16. Illustrated London News, June 12, 1847, 381.

62 magubane
 17. Charles Dickens, “Cape Sketches,” Household Words 1 (1850): 58–59.
18. Raymond Corbey, “Ethnographic Showcases, 1870–1930,” in The Decolonization
of Imagination, ed. Jan N. Pieterse and Bhikhu Parekh (London: Zed Books,
1995).
19. Veit Erlmann, “Spectatorial Lust: The African Choir in England,” in Africans on
Stage: Studies in Ethnological Show Business, ed. Bernth Lindfors (Bloomington:
University of Indiana Press, 1999), 110.
20. Illustrated London News, May 28, 1853, 410.
21. Illustrated London News, June 12, 1847, 381.
22. David Livingstone, Missionary Travels and Researches in South Africa (New York:
Johnson Reprint Company, 1858), 49.
23. Robert Moffatt, The Lives of Robert and Mary Moffatt (London: T. Fischer Unwin,
1885), 223.
24. Adam Sedgwick and William Monk, ed. Dr. Livingstone’s Cambridge Lectures
(London: Bell and Daldy, 1858), 25.
25. Thomas Aveling, The Missionary Souvenir (London: Paternoster Row, 1850), 126.
26. Illustrated London News, May 28, 1853, 410.
27. A Friend and a Brother, “Thoughts on the Savage Lions of London,” Punch, July
23, 1853, 38.
28. Z. S. Strother, “Display of the Body Hottentot,” in Lindfors, Africans on Stage, 25.
29. Athenaeum, May 1847, 33.
30. Timothy Mitchell, “World as Exhibition,” Comparative Studies in Society and His-
tory 31 (1989): 236.
31. Mitchell, “World as Exhibition,” 219.
32. Mitchell, “World as Exhibition,” 232.
33. Mitchell, “World as Exhibition,” 222.
34. Mitchell, “World as Exhibition,” 235.
35. Mitchell, “World as Exhibition,” 232.
36. Strother, “Display of the Body Hottentot,” 43.
37. Edward Hyde East, Report of Cases Argued and Determined in the Court of the
King’s Bench (London: Steven and Sons, 1910), 104:344.
38. East, Report of Cases, 344.
39. Illustrated London News, June 12, 1847, 381.
40. Illustrated London News, May 28, 1853, 410.
41. Illustrated London News, September 14, 1850, 236.
42. “An Affair with the (Knightsbridge) Caffres,” Punch, October 8, 1853, 154.
43. Anne McClintock, Imperial Leather: Race, Gender, and Sexuality in the Colonial
Contest (New York: Routledge, 1995), 40.
44. Illustrated London News, September 14, 1850, 236.
45. Johannes Fabian, “The Other Revisited: Critical Afterthoughts,” Anthropological
Theory 6 (2006): 143.

Ethnographic Showcases 63
46. Illustrated London News, September 14, 1850, 236.
47. Tracey Denean Sharpley-Whiting, Sexualized Savages, Primal Fears, and Primi-
tive Narratives in French (Durham nc: Duke University Press, 1999), 24.
48. Illustrated London News, June 12, 1847, 381.
49. East, Report of Cases, 345.
50. East, Report of Cases, 345.
51. Illustrated London News, May 28, 1853, 410.
52. Illustrated London News, February 15, 1853, 90.
53. Bernth Lindfors, “Hottentot, Bushman, Kaffir: Taxonomic Tendencies in 19th
Century Racial Taxonomy,” Nordic Journal of African Studies 5 (1996): 15.
54. R. W. Vanderkiste, Notes and Narratives of Six Years Mission, Principally among
the Dens of London (London: James Nisbet, 1852), 118–19.
55. E. Scopes, “The Music of Africa,” Ludgate Monthly 2 (1891): 111.
56. Scopes, “Music of Africa,” 109.
57. “Native Choristers from South Africa,” Review of Reviews 4 (1891): 256.
58. “Native Choristers from South Africa,” 256.
59. Radhika Mohanram, Black Body: Women, Colonialism, Space (Minneapolis: Uni-
versity of Minnesota Press, 1999), 67.
60. bell hooks, Black Looks: Race and Representation (Boston: South End Press, 1992),
168.
61. hooks, Black Looks, 168.
62. Phillips Verner Bradford and Harvey Blume, Ota Benga: The Pygmy in the Zoo
(New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1992).

64 magubane
3
Reinventing George Heye
Nationalizing the Museum of the
American Indian and Its Collections
ann mcmullen

Nothing but Stories

The year 2004 was important for the Smithsonian Institution’s National
Museum of the American Indian (nmai). For many, nmai’s opening on
Washington dc’s National Mall marked the fulfillment of overdue obliga-
tions and long-awaited dreams. Few recognized that 2004 also marked a
forgotten anniversary: a century had passed since George Gustav Heye
began cataloging the objects in the museum’s collection. Press coverage
repeatedly mentioned nmai’s roots in New York’s Museum of the Ameri-
can Indian but referred to Heye as a “passionate,” “obsessive,” and “rapa-
cious” collector and a “buccaneer.” Directly or indirectly responsible for
removing treasured objects from Native hands or lands, Heye’s contribu-
tions could hardly be commemorated. However, Mr. Richard Kessler no-
ticed this treatment and addressed himself to the Washington Post: “The
Smithsonian is ignoring and . . . demeaning the contribution of its chief
benefactor. . . . Mr. Heye, whom The Post disdainfully called a ‘boxcar’ col-
lector, . . . contributed his entire collection for public use and exhibition.
. . . But for his ‘boxcar’ collection, we’d have no Museum of the American
Indian today. . . . It is high time for the ingrates in charge of this museum
. . . to acknowledge and credit their benefactor.” It is doubtful that nmai
staff members would have disagreed with Kessler’s remarks, because the
image of Heye portrayed by the press was delivered to reporters in their
nmai press kits.1
Few at the nmai think or speak about Heye except to repeat similar
second- and thirdhand anecdotes and sound bites that are learned by

65
watching and emulating others. As Thomas King suggests in The Truth
about Stories: A Native Narrative, “The truth about stories is that that’s
all we are.”2 And like any mythology, stories told about Heye have grown
over generations, and their roots are often shadowed or unknown. As
defined by Eric Hobsbawm, this is the stuff of invented traditions, those
“invented, constructed and formally instituted . . . within a brief and date-
able period.”3
Here I explore the invention of George Heye and how his image has
been shaped by nmai’s need to serve a different mission than Heye himself
espoused. Because nmai simultaneously holds part of the national col-
lections and supports Native empowerment, explicating Heye’s collection
involves both U.S. and Indigenous nationalism and generates interesting
rhetoric.
Regarding rhetoric — the persuasive use of language — others have used
the same texts I employ here to support very different interpretations of
George Heye. Ideas for this essay arose during my work on nmai’s col-
lections planning documents.4 Struck by nmai rhetoric about Heye, I
sought alternative background materials. At first I only hoped to under-
stand Heye’s transition from collector to museum founder but was caught
up in uncovering a very different story. At this point, I make no claim
to exhaustive research on George Heye and his intent; but given readily
available material that contradicts prevailing nmai stories, I suggest that
those who have described Heye only as an obsessive and even nefarious
collector have done so based on their own preconceptions or disregard for
contradictory evidence. Nonetheless, while I believe George Heye’s story
is more complex and more honorable than how it has been told, I doubt
my version will totally rehabilitate him. He was — like anyone — a man of
his time. However, for the nmai, he remains an inconvenient truth and
has become a victim of its self-told history.
There is more to this than simply correcting Heye’s biography. While
discussing this essay with a group of coworkers, I explained Heye’s intent
in creating his museum. Among the dissonant voices, I heard a Paw-
nee man who escorts Native and non-Native collections researchers say,
“What do you mean? I thought he was just a crazy white man — that’s what
we tell everybody!” He realized that labeling George Heye as an obsessive

66 mcmullen
collector who accumulated objects solely to own them also dehistoricized
the collections and implied that they grew randomly. He recognized that
nmai could — and should — take responsibility for understanding Heye’s
motivations and how the collection was formed.
Investigation of collectors and their impact on museums — including
how collections were assembled, how collectors have shaped what is pre-
served in museums, and how collections can be integral to knowledge
projects — is not a new subject. Susan Pearce and James Clifford suggest
that we cannot let our interest in objects and collections obscure the his-
tories of how they were accumulated since this is part of the deeper his-
tory of museums and colonialism.5
There is no single path to understanding connections between col-
lecting and museums. Much scholarship has focused on large-scale,
individual collectors; but George Stocking rightly suggests that we exam-
ine their lives in the context of wealth, since objects represent wealth and
making collections implies possession of the resources needed for their
care, maintenance, and display.6 The names and biographies of collectors
who epitomize this — Hearst, Horniman, and Pitt Rivers — are reasonably
familiar. However, the attention paid to individual collectors — whether
personal or scholarly — has been rather unequal, with more attention paid
to individuals who collected for their own purposes rather than research.
Far less notice has been given to collectors working in service to anthro-
pology and how their work affects what museums hold today. This im-
balance is somewhat contradictory, since Anthony Shelton suggests that
museums prefer systematic collectors — those focused on the increase of
collective knowledge — and that other collectors often disappear in mu-
seums’ self-representations. Shelton and Clifford suggest that this results
from the perception that these good, controlled, systematic collectors
seem rational while the others — whose intents are less transparent — are
cast as obsessive or inscrutable.7
For many, collectors — especially those of the impassioned variety — are
a kind of stereotype. Jean Baudrillard, in particular, suggests that collec-
tors are incomplete human beings who create an alternate reality through
their collections. Others focus on the guilty and almost sexual pleasure
collectors take in acquiring things and arranging, handling, or even fon-

Reinventing George Heye 67

dling them.8 Altogether, this emotional involvement with objects seems at
odds with museums’ scholarly objectivity, so we should not be surprised
that museums often shy away from delving too deeply into collectors’ mo-
tivations. However, because these collections carry their own intellectual
burdens, we need to unpack the collectors’ agendas rather than hiding
them behind those of museums themselves.
In studying collectors and collections, Susan Pearce suggests that col-
lectors’ assemblages can be characterized as souvenirs, fetish objects, and
systematic collections; but this is based largely on contemporary collec-
tors. In contradiction, Brian Durrans notes that we should not assume
that we can confidently understand the motivations of colonial and mod-
ern Euro-American collectors, because concepts like self, other, identity,
scientist, and collector have shifted over time. He further suggests that
nineteenth-century collectors’ cognitive and conceptual distance from
us (as modern-day analysts) may be as great as that between them and
the people from whom they collected and that — from our own view-
point — collectors may be a kind of “Other.”9
Durrans’s argument encourages reexamination of collectors who are
perceived as irrational or obsessive and reinterpretation of their collec-
tions. Often, those of us who study such collections view them as small
slices of reality and compare them to our own, presumably broader, cul-
tural conceptions. However, Chris Gosden and Chantal Knowles, discuss-
ing collecting in Melanesia, suggest that we examine collections not as
partial records but instead as “complete, although particular, outcomes
of individual sets of colonial practices.”10 This should remind us that any
individual’s collection may represent a complete image of what that col-
lector envisioned and that identifying that imagined whole is primary to
understanding the collector.
Altogether, this means that studying collectors and their collections is
about more than biography. To understand collectors’ legacies, we must
understand what they intended to create, how they did it, and what they
said and recorded about their collections. At the same time, we must also
examine museums’ motives and intents and how they have made use of
collections for their own purposes, even when the museums’ purposes
are vastly different than those of collectors themselves.

68 mcmullen
Museums, Colonialism, Anthropology,
and the Primacy of Objects
Much has been said about museums and colonialism, but the subject de-
serves some brief repetition here. Early European museums focused more
on nature and antiquity, but works by non-Western people, who were en-
countered during exploration and conquest, soon followed. Later pub-
lic museums, and how they ordered and explained “curiosities,” helped
create ways of thinking about people represented by objects. With col-
lections swelled by military souvenirs, museums vacillated between rep-
resenting others, colonial and imperial rule, and Western hegemony.11
Museums and their ideological cousins — world’s fairs and Wild West
shows — brought the world to visitors for consumption. Museums offered
concrete representations of travel writing, presenting panoptic views of
time and geography that could be comprehended as they were traversed.
While world’s fairs offered synchronic views, museums were seen as rep-
resenting the past.12
The anthropology that grew up in museums was equally predicated on
the past; and by creating the “ethnographic present,” it temporally dis-
tanced Indigenous people from colonizers and museum visitors. Salvage
anthropology and primitive art collecting irrevocably placed Indigenous
objects in museums, where they were preserved and used to create im-
ages of the vanquished.13 Because Native works did not fit art museums’
focus on high culture, anthropology museums helped make Native cul-
tures accessible to the public; but, for some, museums represented “the
final ugly and unadorned edge of Manifest Destiny.”14 Collecting by in-
dividuals and museums prolonged colonial patterns and cultivated nos-
talgia for the lost past. Museums’ disregard for Native arts made for sale
fostered images of unchanging Native people and made the museum “a
shrine to the premodern.”15
While anthropology shed its dependence on objects along with its mu-
seum roots, objects remained museums’ central focus. They were “real
things” fixed in time and worked well as the basis for representation. And
because ethnology’s focus was on nonliterate peoples, objects became pri-
mary texts for understanding Native people. For “prehistory” represented
by archaeological collections, this was equally true: the Smithsonian’s Otis
Tufton Mason states that it was a “story written in things.”16

Reinventing George Heye 69

 It is at this moment in anthropological thinking — the earliest years of
the twentieth century — that George Gustav Heye comes on the scene.

Will the Real George Heye Please Stand Up?

First, I should relate facts about George Heye that cannot be contested;
everything else can be considered spin, either my own or others. George
Gustav Heye was born in 1874 to Carl Friedrich Gustav Heye, a U.S. emi-
grant from Germany, and Marie Antoinette Lawrence Heye, whose fam-
ily were longtime New Yorkers. Carl Heye made his money in oil, and
George Heye’s upbringing was considered privileged. He graduated from
Columbia University’s School of Mines in 1896 with a degree in electrical
engineering. His employer sent him to Arizona in 1897, where he observed
the wife of his Navajo foreman chewing her husband’s shirt to kill the lice.
He said, “I bought the shirt, became interested in aboriginal customs, and
acquired other objects as opportunity offered, sending them back home.
. . . That shirt was the start of my collection. Naturally when I had a shirt
I wanted a rattle and moccasins. And then the collecting bug seized me
and I was lost. . . . When I returned to New York . . . I found quite an ac-
cumulation of objects . . . and I began to read rather intensively on the
subject of the Indians.”17
From 1901 to 1909 Heye worked in investment banking, which he left
to focus on collecting. He had already moved from buying single objects
to large collections and had 10,000 objects by 1906, maintaining a catalog
on three-by-five-inch cards.18 He bought collections, sponsored expedi-
tions and publications, and traveled and collected himself. The collection’s
rapid growth — and its directions — were influenced by Marshall Saville
at Columbia and by George Pepper of the American Museum of Natural
History (amnh). By 1908, having filled his apartment and a warehouse,
Heye made arrangements with the University of Pennsylvania’s Univer-
sity Museum to exhibit his collection but hired his own staff. His mother
died in 1915, and he inherited an estimated $10 million. That year, he mar-
ried his second wife, Thea Page, honeymooning at Georgia’s Nacoochee
Mound excavations, which he funded with the Bureau of American Eth-
nology.
In 1916, with the collection totaling 58,000 objects, Heye was offered
a building site at 155th and Broadway in New York in a complex of cul-

70 mcmullen
tural organizations.19 Supported by affluent friends, the Museum of the
American Indian (mai) was built; and Heye deeded his entire collection
to it, endowed the museum, and was named director for life. The museum
opened in 1922, and Heye built a professional staff and kept collecting. By
1926 he had filled his museum and built a separate storage facility in the
Bronx. However, with the deaths of two major benefactors in 1928, Heye
had to dismiss most of his staff. With more than 163,000 objects by 1929,
Heye continued purchasing collections assembled by others. At his death
in 1957, the collections numbered over 225,000 catalog numbers, repre-
senting perhaps 700,000 individual items. These represent approximately
85 percent of the nmai’s current object holdings.20

In the Eyes of His Contemporaries: 1957–1960

Heye’s official biographer, J. Alden Mason of the University Museum,
identifies 1903 as the beginning of Heye’s professional work: “Collecting
as a hobby was now at an end, and [he] proceeded to fulfill that destiny
which the Fates had ordained at his birth . . . the most comprehensive
collections of the American Indian in the world.” Samuel K. Lothrop,
who worked for Heye before departing for Harvard, stresses Heye’s con-
tributions: “He occupied a unique place in . . . New World anthropology,
because he assembled the largest existing collection representing the ab-
original cultures of this hemisphere. . . . Heye never studied anthropology
but . . . was not a dilettante and, by experience in handling the material,
he became a connoisseur in many phases of native art. . . . From 1904 on-
ward, he was not satisfied with mere purchases of specimens, but sent out
well-financed expeditions.”21 Others, including E. K. Burnett, who worked
as Heye’s administrator, considered him a collector: “As with all dedicated
collectors, George Heye was ruthless in his dealings.”22
In 1960 Kevin Wallace of the New Yorker published a less adulatory
piece, largely based on quotes from an anonymous professor who spoke
freely and somewhat bitterly: “I doubt . . . his goal was anything more
than to own the biggest damned hobby collection in the world. . . . George
didn’t buy Indian stuff . . . to study the life of a people . . . it never crossed
his mind. . . . He bought all those objects solely . . . to own them — for what
purpose, he never said. He . . . was fortified by sufficient monomania to
build up a superlative, disciplined collection.”23

Reinventing George Heye 71

 As a whole, Heye’s friends and contemporaries provided what were
probably intended as humorous anecdotes, but ultimately they have been
accepted as judgments. Much of what later became legend stems from
these anecdotes, including characterization of Heye as “a boxcar collec-
tor” with a “genius for being indiscriminate.”24

The Museum of the American Indian: 1960–1989

Frederick J. Dockstader (Oneida and Navajo) became director of the mai
in 1960 and seldom mentioned Heye. In his Indian Art of the Americas,
Dockstader simply mentions the excellent collection Heye had assem-
bled. For a book of museum “masterworks,” Dockstader reprises Heye’s
life, noting his “primary desire was . . . to provide a complete picture of
Indian life . . . a simple stirring stick was . . . as significant . . . as the most
elaborately carved and painted totem pole.”25
Following Dockstader’s dismissal in 1975, the museum tried to increase
its visibility with exhibitions at Manhattan’s U.S. Customs House; but the
self-image it presented was that of a magnificent collection of Native heri-
tage and not George Heye’s lifework. In their publications, curators Anna
Roosevelt and James Smith ignore Heye. A 1978 article by Vince Wilcox
focuses on the collection — “considered by many to be the legacy of a sin-
gle man and his obsession” — and calls Heye, “first and foremost a collec-
tor, not a true scholar . . . the Museum was for him the most expedient
method to develop a major collection.” Roland Force’s The Heye and the
Mighty, which recounts the mai’s struggle to relocate and the Smithsonian
transfer, entitled his chapter on Heye with one word: “Obsession.”26

The National Museum of the American Indian: 1989–Present

The early years at the nmai saw little concentration on George Heye. With
the opening of New York’s George Gustav Heye Center (gghc), an accom-
panying book called Heye “the epitome of the obsessive collector,” while
another suggested that the collection “reflects the monumental — and ul-
timately unfathomable — desire of George Gustav Heye to possess as many
objects as possible.”27 In 1999 Clara Sue Kidwell acknowledged that Heye
knew the value of systematic collecting and documentation but focused
on his “idiosyncratic passion” for older material.28
With the 1999 opening of the Cultural Resources Center in Suitland,

72 mcmullen
Maryland (where the collections would be housed), and the groundbreak-
ing for the nmai Mall Museum, attention shifted to Washington. In 2000,
Smithsonian secretary Larry Small authored an article entitled “A Pas-
sionate Collector.” Rather than discuss the value of the collection, he fo-
cuses on Heye as an individual collector, drawing heavily on anecdotes
provided by Wallace’s 1960 article, including one anecdote where Heye
was said to have “quizzed small-town morticians about their recent dead
who might have owned Indian artifacts.” Drawing on Wallace, Small calls
Heye a “great vacuum cleaner of a collector” but credits him with saving
a “legacy of inestimable worth” through his “life of focused accumula-
tion.”29
In 2003 nmai director Rick West summarized Heye’s work: “he col-
lected diligently, indeed, some would say almost obsessively, dispatching
teams . . . to the far reaches. . . . They sent Native objects back . . . literally
in railway boxcars because the volume was so great.” Other references to
a “small army of collectors” made Heye’s motives imperial.30 However,
most replayed now common characterizations: “obsessive,” “rapacious,”
“inveterate,” and “boxcar collector.”31 Curator Mary Jane Lenz repeats the
same stories but attempts to explain Heye, identifying his aim of creating
“the leading institution in this country devoted to the scientific study of
American Indian archaeology and ethnology.” She also quotes Heye to
suggest that his interest was not solely possession: “They are not alone ob-
jects to me, but sources of vistas and dreams of their makers and owners.
Whether utilitarian or ceremonial, I try to feel why and how the owner
felt regarding them.” Native Universes, the major publication that accom-
panied the opening of the nmai Mall Museum, never mentions George
Heye.32
Through press coverage during the 2004 opening, specific images of
Heye were developed, fed largely by the museum’s press releases.33 The
biography in the press releases called Heye’s first object, “the beginning of
his passion for collecting” and described his life’s work as “buying every-
thing in sight.”34 The press reveled in Heye as a passionate collector who
was driven by unexplained motives and indifferent to living Native people,
as opposed to the founder of a large museum that was taken over by the
Smithsonian.35 Quotes from director West compounded the mystery: “he
loved the stuff. [But] it was never quite clear how much he really thought

Reinventing George Heye 73

about the people who made [it].” All-absorbing passion was a common
theme: “collecting Indian objects was his passion in life, plain and simple.”
Insanity and consumption were equally prevalent: “The extraordinary
collection was formed by the monomaniacal passion of George Gustav
Heye. . . . His eclectic taste devoured with equal fervor both the artisti-
cally exquisite and the ploddingly mundane.” Harking back to the whis-
pered “Rosebud” of Citizen Kane, Heye was compared to William Ran-
dolph Hearst in his “obsession for hunting and gathering other peoples’
stuff.”36

External Views
Recent scholarly discussions of Heye are much the same, referring to him
as “an institution in himself ” and as “the greatest collector of all.”37 While
he did support expeditions and excavations, he is said to have done so,
“for the enhancement of his private collections.”38 However, the collec-
tion’s size and how it was acquired are inflated, making Heye’s behavior
look even more extreme. Some set Heye within the context of early twen-
tieth-century anthropology and museums but labeled him “a wealthy in-
dividual with a passion for rapidly buying a huge collection,” which be-
came a “monomaniacal dedication.”39 Edmund Carpenter’s study identifies
Heye as compulsive, secretive, and driven to “amass the greatest collec-
tion, ever,” suggesting that “Robber Baron bargaining” — rather than the
objects themselves — was Heye’s driving desire.40 Unfortunately, suggest-
ing that Heye’s goal was to amass a huge collection identifies his motives
by matching them with his results, rather than understanding the goals
he set for himself.

A Different View of George Heye and the

Museum of the American Indian
All these stories may be true, but they are not the whole story. The authors
I cite have often overemphasized aspects of George Heye’s life — multiple
marriages, epicurean tastes, fast driving, and love of cigars — because he
left so few personal writings. I believe we need to extract George Heye
from this cult of personality and examine his intent in building a collec-
tion, sponsoring research and publications, and founding and running a
museum. Again, my goal is not to valorize Heye but to understand what

74 mcmullen
values shaped the collection and how it might be used by the nmai, Na-
tive people, and Native nations.
First, we need to deal with George Heye as a collector, and he clearly
spent part of his life thinking of himself as a collector.41 Because Native
objects inspired Heye’s interest and started his studies, we can conclude
that his early collections stood for Indian people; but this does not tell
us what Native people or objects meant to his identity. He did object to
having his collection or his museum absorbed by others, suggesting that
he valued its identification with himself. However, the museum was not
Heye’s primary self-identification: some acquaintances — and even his own
son — were said to be unaware of its role in his life. And, despite repeated
references to his “accumulation,” he differed from individuals who secretly
fill their homes with old newspapers or hundreds of cats: he shared his
collection with visitors.42
George Heye thus began as a collector and may have maintained that
tendency; but, as Shepard Krech has said of collectors who found mu-
seums, it is “difficult to separate what drove them to collect from what
propelled them to build museums . . . after a certain point they collected
to fill their museums.” Additionally, we should not underestimate the in-
tellectual role of gentleman scientists: in England, two exceptional col-
lectors — Frederick John Horniman and Augustus Henry Lane Fox Pitt
Rivers — are honored primarily as museum founders, although their lives
closely resemble Heye’s. I believe that George Heye’s role as museum
builder — rather than collector — deserves further examination.43
Heye did not initiate his collections catalog until 1904, soon after he
purchased a significant southwestern ceramic collection. This turn to sys-
tematic collecting and documentation marks the beginning of his mu-
seum idea. Although the museum was founded in 1916, Heye had been
talking about it at least since 1906, when he appealed to Archer Hunting-
ton. With support from his mother, Heye had already funded important
excavations in Mexico and Ecuador, the beginning of a long-term Latin
American research plan laid out by Marshall Saville and undertaken long
before the museum became reality. Here, Heye’s support for systematic
Latin American research predated the American Anthropological Asso-
ciation’s 1907 identification of the region as a priority. By 1908 the name
“Heye Museum” was being used on letterhead and by those who visited.44

Reinventing George Heye 75

The collection’s 1908 move to the University Museum was noted in a
Science announcement, indicating that it was considered scientifically
important.45

Aims and Objects of the Museum of the

American Indian, Heye Foundation
Although anthropology’s twentieth-century transition from museums to
universities is now seen as a matter of course, it could not have been fore-
seen when Heye began planning his museum in 1903, several years before
Franz Boas turned his complete attention to anthropology at Columbia
University. Steven Conn has shown that nineteenth-century studies of Na-
tive people shaped American intellectual and disciplinary development,
including history, literature, and anthropology. American archaeology was
particularly important to anthropology’s growth but was later replaced by
an emphasis on salvage ethnography and Western civilization’s Middle
Eastern origins. At the University Museum and the American Museum of
Natural History — which Heye may have considered models — American
archaeology was increasingly marginalized. Although the Smithsonian
and Harvard’s Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology retained
strong programs, New York museums did not serve Heye’s interest in ar-
chaeology. Simultaneously, museums began to move toward public edu-
cation, often collecting to develop exhibits rather than pursue science.46
By contrast, Heye’s interests were specifically New York, adult educa-
tion, and American Indians; in a 1915 letter to Boas, he explained, “When
I started my collections I was in business downtown. . . . When I en-
deavored . . . to find some place to go . . . [to] be directed in the science I
wished to take up . . . there was no place in the city where a man could go
and get elementary training, or . . . any training at all unless he entered
a regular college course. . . . Since there are many men in New York . . .
placed as I was . . . [I will establish] an institution . . . open to them in the
evening where they can be taught at least the rudiments of Anthropol-
ogy.”47 With Archer Huntington’s offer of a building site at Broadway and
155th Street, Heye’s dream would soon become reality in New York.48
By signing the 1916 trust agreement, Heye created “a museum for the
collection, preservation, study, and exhibition of all things connected
with the anthropology of the aboriginal people of the North, Central,

76 mcmullen
and South Americas, and containing objects of artistic, historic, literary,
and scientific interest.”49 That year, George Pepper wrote, “a new institu-
tion has been founded . . . whose object will be the preservation of every-
thing pertaining to our American tribes.”50 Pepper placed great emphasis
on systematic collecting and scholarly purpose: “[the] sole aim is to gather
and to preserve for students everything useful in illustrating and eluci-
dating the anthropology of the aborigines of the Western Hemisphere,
and to disseminate by means of its publications the knowledge thereby
gained.”51 Collections purchases and donations were justified as valuable
to building the collection — bringing together “specimens that have never
been duplicated” — and special emphasis was placed on organic items pre-
served in caves or sacred bundles.52 Preservation and study were also em-
phasized by Heye in a 1935 letter to a Hidatsa man who requested return
of a sacred bundle: “The primary object of the Museum is to preserve and
to keep safely for future generations anything pertaining to the life and
history of the American Indians . . . where the descendants of the old In-
dians, as well as students and the public, can see and study these objects
of veneration, beauty and historical or scientific interest.”53
Heye’s work has often been explained by reference to Boas’s salvage an-
thropology paradigm; and although Boas urged Heye to focus on salvage,
Heye resisted. While preservation was important to Heye, accumulating
early objects was primary. Anthropologists, including Frank Speck and
Edward Sapir, who documented “memory culture” could not understand
Heye’s frequent disregard for recent works they offered. These pieces were
contradictory to Heye’s agenda — he purchased them solely to document
organic items or precontact technologies. Heye seldom explained him-
self; and most did not recognize his interest in early Native life, perhaps
best illustrated by a museum publication: “Cuba before Columbus.”54
The museum’s exhibits were much like those of its contemporaries.
Cases focused on tribes related by geography or linguistics, such as
“Central Algonkians” or the “Southern Siouan Group.” The museum’s
entrance — representing New York — was literally a gateway to the hemi-
sphere: mid-Atlantic tribes flanked the doorway, and visitors moved
through the continents as they traveled further. Archaeology and eth-
nology were separated, and special cases focused on object types or tech-

Reinventing George Heye 77

nologies such as silverwork, wampum, quillwork, and “Modern Bead-
work.”55
Despite the popularity of dressed mannequins and life groups at the
amnh, mai exhibits relied on closely packed objects with few labels.
Printed guidebooks provided cultural context, using present tense for
Indian people and objects and past tense to describe traditional lifeways.
Cultural variation was explained largely by geography and habitat. Visi-
tors may have understood only the recent past and the more distant, “pre-
historic” past as temporal frameworks.56
After its early years, the mai suffered through the Depression, and the
exhibits probably did not change significantly. Following the loss of its
backers in 1928, the museum drastically cut research and publications;
Heye personally supervised what entered and left the collection, filling in
perceived gaps. However, the events of 1928 cost Heye and the museum
much more than funding. From the beginning, Heye had relied on pro-
fessional advice; but, in dismissing his staff, he lost the knowledge and
manpower to organize and research collections. Academic influences on
his thinking were also lost; and, as American anthropology grew by leaps
and bounds, Heye continued to rely on objects as primary texts.
Where the museum once possessed a grand interpretive potential based
on a massive material archive and individuals who knew what to make
of it, the collection ended up an orphan. The later struggles of the mai
are well known, and in 1989 the museum — Heye’s monument — ceased to
exist as the Smithsonian’s National Museum of the American Indian was
born.57 What lived on was the collection Heye had built, and the question
has become how it can be understood as something more than a monu-
ment to one man’s work, especially when it has continually been read as
a private and unexplained obsession.

Narratives of Nationalism: National

Capital versus Cultural Capital
While Heye’s museum certainly did not support Indigenous national-
ism, the nmai implicitly encourages cultural sovereignty.58 However, the
nmai’s mission effectively obscures the political ground on which the mu-
seum negotiates in serving both the American people and Native inter-
ests. Speaking about the nmai’s 1994 opening of the George Gustav Heye

78 mcmullen
Center, Cheyenne and Arapaho filmmaker Chris Eyre puts this succinctly:
“The concept of the museum is that [for] America this is their history, but
it isn’t really, it’s Native history.”59
The debate over nationalism began not in Washington but in New
York. Heye’s focus on American Indians may indicate that he felt they
contributed to national character, yet he never said so. But after 1975 the
mai — or its collection — became the prize in an odd tug-of-war between
the cultural capital in New York and the national capital in Washington
dc. Under Roland Force’s direction, the museum sought to relocate to
the U.S. Customs House near Battery Park, arguing that the collection
deserved a more prominent location. Resistance by local neighbors and
the mayor’s office brought competing offers from the amnh, Oklahoma
City, Las Vegas, Indianapolis, and others; but the most widely publicized
came from H. Ross Perot, who offered $70 million to move the museum
to Dallas. However quickly that offer faded, it succeeded in turning up
the rhetoric about the collection as a “national treasure.” New York news-
papers were filled with stories, and in 1985 the United Airlines passenger
magazine ran the story, “The Fight for the Greatest American Art Collec-
tion.” In 1987 the Washington Post published remarks by Senators Daniel
Patrick Moynihan and Daniel Inouye. The headline for Moynihan read,
“Why Should New York Let the Smithsonian Abscond with It?” Inouye’s
remarks were entitled, “It Belongs on the Mall, America’s Main Street.”60
With the 1989 passage of the National Museum of the American Indian
Act (Public Law 105-185), the mai collections became part of American
national heritage and patrimony; its merger with the Smithsonian’s Na-
tive holdings purportedly gave “all Americans the opportunity to learn of
the cultural legacy, historic grandeur, and contemporary culture of Na-
tive Americans.” In other comments, memorialization and pluralism were
twin themes. In a Senate address, Inouye stated, “The time has come to
honor and remember the greatness of the first Americans, their wisdom,
their leadership, their valor, and their contributions to the people of the
United States.” In signing the act, President George H. W. Bush remarked,
“The nation will go forward with a new and richer understanding of the
heritage, culture and values of the peoples of the Americas of Indian
ancestry,” and the Senate Committee on Indian Affairs chairman, John

Reinventing George Heye 79

McCain, stated, “The Indian Museum will show that a dynamic, pluralistic
society can celebrate distinctiveness without fostering separatism.”61
Senator Moynihan may have been the only person to publicly acknowl-
edge George Heye: “We may all anticipate the day that George Gustav
Heye’s gift to the world will be displayed in a manner reflective of the
great and living cultures of the American Indian.” Ironically, this came at
the moment when “Heye’s gift” joined American national heritage and
the Smithsonian’s national collections, known for Dorothy’s ruby slippers,
Archie Bunker’s chair, and Fonzie’s leather jacket. Still, some Native people
looked to the hope that “tribal people could assume control of the . . . Na-
tive objects left in George Heye’s rapaciously acquired collection.”62 The
trick was how the collection could be redefined as the collective property
of Native nations.
I doubt Congress foresaw growth of “a national tribal museum” from
the Smithsonian transfer. What might have happened, as Paul Chaat Smith
suggests, is that Indians would have been “explained and accounted for,
and somehow fit into the creation myth of the most powerful, benevolent
nation ever.”63 However, discussions of the collection’s potential Native
repossession began in the 1980s, when then mai’s Native trustees — in-
cluding Vine Deloria and Suzan Shown Harjo — began to talk about the
collection as “an irreplaceable heritage.” Speaking to the board in 1984,
Deloria said, “This is a struggle to control our collection.” Lloyd Kiva New
stated, “No matter what you do, just take care of the collection. It is our
Fort Knox.”64 Discourse on control continued throughout the Smithso-
nian transfer and into debates over the nmai’s 1991 repatriation policy,
which was read as indicating that collections were the “sole property” of
affiliated tribes. This was clarified to cover only items successfully claimed
for repatriation, but the discussions threw light on what Native control
meant to different constituencies.65

Cultural Sovereignty and Indigenous Nationalism

at the National Museum of the American Indian
By 1994, with the opening of the George Gustav Heye Center, Native voice
had become the nmai’s leading trope for exhibit practice. In an accom-
panying book, one author wrote, “Much has been written about us from
the perspective of the outsider, but our own story — written by our own

80 mcmullen
people with an inside perspective — remains to be told.”66 Since then, Na-
tive voice — allowing Indigenous people to “show and tell the world who
we are and to use our own voices in the telling” — has been the nmai’s pri-
mary means of assuring cultural sovereignty.67
At the same time, the nmai addressed Native ambivalence over mu-
seum possession of Native objects. As Rick West states, “There was . . . this
historic love/hate relationship between museums and Native communi-
ties. We . . . value them . . . because they have our stuff, and we hate them
because they have our stuff.”68 Indian visitors to the collections grudg-
ingly acknowledge that without George Heye’s interference many objects
would now be lost. Delaware Grand Chief Linda Poolaw notes, “If . . .
Heye hadn’t collected those things back then, we would not have them
today. . . . Over 100 years later, my people can see what we had.”69 By so-
liciting recommendations about care of collections and their movement
from New York to Washington, the nmai extended the bounds of tribal
sovereignty over the collections as a “moral and ethical responsibility.”70
Beyond work on exhibitions and collections, others see the nmai’s very
existence as Native cultural sovereignty. Amanda Cobb suggests that the
National Museum of the American Indian Act symbolizes Native cul-
tural resurgence and has given it greater visibility. She calls the act sig-
nificant because museums’ representations of Native people have seldom
been recognized as colonial forces, noting that the nmai’s importance lies
in the fact that “Native Americans have again turned an instrument of
colonization and dispossession . . . into an instrument of self-definition
and cultural continuance.”71 Nevertheless, a few things remain to be said
about the problems and prospects of cultural sovereignty as it might be
expressed within the nmai or any other museum.
First, we must question whether creating a separate Indian museum
at the Smithsonian embodies essentialism.72 Like the planned National
Museum of African American History and Culture, the nmai provides
a “separate but equal” place for telling American history outside the na-
tional museum that is dedicated to that purpose. Yet visitors probably do
not expect a big dose of American history to be taught at the nmai any
more than they expect it at the National Air and Space Museum: each
Smithsonian museum is constituted by subject matter and is not intended
as a place for perspective-based history. And, if the nmai is seen as a sub-

Reinventing George Heye 81

ject-matter museum, the public expects that subject to be Native culture,
with the emphasis on the singular, rather than on plural cultures.
Tony Bennett has suggested that what is perceived as national heritage
is universally supported, and the adoption of the nmai into the Smith-
sonian family has ironically made it part of American national patri-
mony.73 But this does not account for how Americans — Native and non-
Native — look to the nmai to support their perspectives on Indian people
and culture. Bennett also suggests that museums run the risk of creating
an image of the past as counterpoint to and retreat from the present. The
nmai wants to become an “international center that represents the total-
ity of Native experiences,” focusing on living people and cultures; but that
does not deter visitors’ perceptions of nmai collections as images of the
frozen past, sources of nostalgia, or resources for the future.74 The extent
to which the nmai serves those seeking an essentialist, “spiritual” alterna-
tive to contemporary crises of personal identity, family life, and environ-
mental degradation only reinforces a newer but still potentially treacher-
ous master narrative.75
In presenting living cultures, the nmai rests too often on working with
“traditional elders” to illustrate how traditional culture is lived today, re-
sulting in an uncomfortable nostalgia that implies that Native people live
only through reference to tradition and must constantly explain how their
present-day lives remain traditional.76 This is far from how many Native
people, especially those who do not call themselves “traditional,” want to
think about the present and the future of cultural sovereignty, regardless
of objects or museums. If the nmai is to successfully combat the misper-
ception that it only narrates the past, I suspect it needs to engage with
those who are revolutionizing diverse bodies of scholarship, reclaiming
them, and making them relevant to the Native present and future through
Native intellectual sovereignty.77
Jacki Thompson Rand has recently spoken about how early dominance
by male Native artists has left a mark on the nmai by privileging art and
material culture.78 Though I agree with Rand, I believe the larger issue for
museums’ problematic reliance on material culture may be Native schol-
ars’ own neglect of visual culture. Museums have long created flawed im-
ages of Native cultures; but most Native scholars have — like early twen-
tieth-century anthropology — abandoned museums, seeking the more

82 mcmullen
visible and potentially independent university atmosphere.79 I recognize
that museums — aimed at the public — remain marginal to intellectual life,
but they do retain considerable power and can be valuable to increasing
understanding of cultural sovereignty. While contemporary Native art-
ists and photographers have reinterpreted art, objects, and images in the
name of cultural sovereignty, the greatest intellectual attention paid to
material culture is often for repatriation — the literal rather than the sym-
bolic repossession of what museums hold.80
My point here is not to criticize Native scholars for lack of involvement
in museums but to ask why. If sovereignty, as Scott Lyons suggests, is the
“strategy by which we aim to best recover our losses from the ravages of
colonization” and Native communication and resistance have always taken
textual and nontextual forms, why has reinterpretation and repossession
of visual culture fallen so far behind writing in Native self-representation?
One difficulty may be that what museums ask of Native people is often a
literal reading of objects, hence museums’ recourse to elders whose tra-
ditional knowledge is expected to provide a Rosetta stone.81 While such
readings may sometimes suffice, they cannot substitute for recontextual-
izations supplied by Native scholars working across disciplines, such as
reading and writing history through art.82

What Next?
Returning to George Heye, we must still question whether the collection
he built can serve Native cultural sovereignty at the nmai or elsewhere. As
I have suggested, Native ambivalence about museums has many sources,
including possession of what once was theirs. However, as an anonymous
member of a Native consultation, which was held during early architec-
tural program meetings for the nmai, once stated, “My grandparents were
my collection.”83 This quote suggests that museums’ dependence on ma-
terial culture continues to reduce Native culture to its physical products,
often permanently separated from related knowledge. To better serve its
Native and non-Native constituencies, the nmai plans to develop its col-
lections by moving away from physical objects and toward documen-
tation of intangible culture, both associated with physical objects and
as separate expressions. Without this step, the nmai can never begin to

Reinventing George Heye 83

represent Native experiences and serve Native communities in ways they
themselves define.84
But we must also recognize the prospects and limitations of the collec-
tion George Heye built and of the objects subsequently acquired by the
mai and the nmai. Despite the nmai’s plans to expand what it considers
collections, the collection is what it is for the moment; and many will not
find the right materials and texts to carry out cultural sovereignty proj-
ects. Only time will tell whether sufficient building blocks exist for work
that Native people want to do in museums. Heye’s interest in document-
ing the precontact Native past has left an indelible mark, both in how ob-
jects were removed from Native hands and, because deposition in mu-
seums has authenticated these objects as “typical,” “proper,” or “the best,”
freezing images of Native culture that retain their potency for consump-
tion and replication. This is a problem for all museums, whose origins in
collecting Western civilization’s antiquities still frame a perception that
everything and everybody represented in museums are equally antique.85
The nmai’s attempt to move from the classical museum to a place of living
people and cultures requires changing a global mind-set on both public
and academic levels.
Future use of collections and resources can only succeed when collec-
tions are understood as the selectively accumulated and reified products
of outsiders’ perceptions. The ideological burdens that museum objects
carry, whether cultural, institutional, or personal, must be understood;
and there is still considerable work needed to answer the question posed
by Patricia Penn Hilden and Shari Huhndorf: “How did these objects
climb into their glass case in the National Museum of the American In-
dian?” From that point forward, cultural studies can then deal with mate-
rial culture as just one kind of text for intellectual and cultural sovereignty
projects, including the strategically anticolonial and overtly nationalistic
as well as those focused on the future rather than the past. Lloyd Kiva
New articulated this while pondering the value of the nmai collections:
“I began to wonder what . . . [the nmai] could do. . . . While I agreed with
. . . preservation of Indian culture, I hoped . . . this did not mean some
kind of cultural embalming process wherein obsolete cultural ways are
kept going beyond their time. . . . ‘Conservation’ or ‘preservation’ means

84 mcmullen
that the museum should take impeccable care of patrimonial objects in
its collection. But a more important task should be . . . using the objects
. . . to help Indian culture develop new ways to respond to the dynamics
of an ever-changing social environment.”86
From his perspective as an artist, Lloyd New saw beyond current read-
ings of Native objects as art. While potentially useful to tribal national
pride, transformation of ethnological and archaeological objects from
artifact to art remains problematic. Their elevation may have increased
respect for Native artistry, but it also promises to strip objects of cultural
contexts and continues to privilege physical over intangible cultural ex-
pressions. Introduction of Native objects into art worlds has simultane-
ously elevated their status as desirable commodities, again emphasizing
material and commercial value and potentially encouraging neo-imperial
collection and consumption of objects and the people they metonymi-
cally represent.87
I am not suggesting that aesthetics are not part of the picture; aesthetics
are still how collectors and museums often see objects. George Heye was
no exception; although he did not consider objects as art, he privileged
some objects as “fine examples.”88 Ruth Phillips calls this Heye’s “privi-
leging of rarity and age,” but this perception of the collections and Heye’s
work results from how the mai and the nmai have historically overem-
phasized “masterworks” at the expense of other aspects of the collection
and emphasized art rather than culture or history. Since 1970 approxi-
mately 8,500 objects have been published or exhibited, often three or
four times; and this does not include loans of these same “masterpieces”
to other institutions. What of the quarter-million other objects, includ-
ing 568 items simply identified as “stick” in the nmai’s collections? These
items of everyday life do not feed anyone’s wonderful master narrative
of Native life. But they are important, and their preponderance indicates
they were equally important to George Heye. Although he probably loved
those masterpieces, he also appreciated things that other collectors and
museums ignored, including those 568 sticks.89 The collection’s strength
grew from Heye’s interest in materials that escaped archaeological pres-
ervation and other collectors’ notice, but it has been dismissed by the
boxcar-collector metaphor and by the misrepresentations of his intent,
which has been read as simply amassing a huge collection.

Reinventing George Heye 85

 . . .
Research for this essay was completed in 2007, the fiftieth anniversary of
George Heye’s death; and the intervening years have not been kind to his
legacy. As I have suggested, the nmai has seen fit to emphasize and mag-
nify his role as a collector, masking him and his intent in a cloak of in-
sanity and consumption. Ultimately, Heye’s image has been so thoroughly
wrapped and packed that he is no longer perceived as anything but a man
who was singularly obsessed with the simple desire to collect and possess
Indian stuff. He is not remembered as a man who funded countless expe-
ditions and excavations, who funded research and publications, or who
assembled a professional staff the likes of which few museums have ever
seen. Most of all, he is not remembered as a man who built a museum
that rivaled its contemporaries in scope and scholarly production. The
nmai’s own origin story can seldom admit that it grew out of that other
museum — the mai — or that the collection results not from the “boxcar”
metaphor but from a definitive intellectual basis and how it was carried
out. George Heye the museum founder cannot be a culture hero in the
nmai story because it is easier for many to deal with him as “just a crazy
white man.” Simultaneously, systematic erasure of Heye’s purpose and
intent in assembling a collection and founding the mai has allowed the
nmai to create a new, ahistoric foundation for the collection that rests on
a belief that Heye’s expansive collecting encompassed everything rather
than the very specific interests he developed for sixty years. Contrary to
this trajectory, I believe that interpreting nmai collections cannot pro-
ceed without understanding George Heye, and that it is time to tell bet-
ter-informed stories of Heye’s life’s work and its impact on the museum’s
past, present, and future.

Notes
This essay originates in a paper of the same name delivered at the Newberry Li-
brary’s September 2007 symposium “Contesting Knowledge: Museums and In-
digenous Perspectives,” and I am indebted to the staff of the library’s D’Arcy
McNickle Center for American Indian History and the Committee on Institutional
Cooperation–American Indian Studies Consortium for their support. I am equally
indebted to Bruce Bernstein and my coffee klatch colleagues — Patricia Nietfeld,
Mary Jane Lenz, Tom Evans, Lou Stancari, and Cynthia Frankenburg — for on-
going discussions on George Heye and the nmai collections. My thoughts on Na-
tive intellectualism would not be what they are without benefit of conversations

86 mcmullen
 with Paul Chaat Smith. I also owe thanks to Lisa M. King for discussions on rhe-
torical sovereignty and for introducing me to its literature and to Kylie Message
for her suggestion that I look to the history of the Frederick Horniman collection
and museum for parallels with George Heye’s life. For their comments on this
paper or discussions on its substance, I thank Bruce Bernstein, Ruth Phillips, and
Ira Jacknis.
1. For characterizations of Heye, see Jerry Reynolds, “The Struggle to Save the Heye
Collection,” Indian Country Today, September 18, 2004, http://www.indiancoun
try.com/content.cfm?id=1095516461; and Francis X. Clines, “The American Tribes
Prepare Their National Showcase,” New York Times, March 28, 2004, http://query
.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=9A03EFD81030F93BA15750C0A9629C8B63.
Richard F. Kessler, “A New Museum, an Ancient Heritage,” Washington Post, Sep-
tember 18, 2004; this article referred to an earlier piece by Jackie Trescott, “His-
tory’s New Look: At the Indian Museum, a Past without Pedestals,” Washington
Post, September 13, 2004. For the nmai’s 2004 press release, see nmai, “George
Gustav Heye: Founder of the Museum of the American Indian (1916) in New York
City,” http://www.nmai.si.edu/press/releases/09-16-04_heye_biography.pdf.
2. Thomas King, The Truth about Stories: A Native Narrative (Minneapolis: University
of Minnesota Press, 2003), 122.
3. Eric Hobsbawm, “Inventing Traditions,” introduction to The Invention of Tradi-
tion, ed. Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1983), 1.
4. nmai, Intellectual Framework for the Collections and Collecting Plan, adopted by
nmai Board of Trustees, October 2006; and nmai, Scope of Collections Descrip-
tion, 2007.
5. Susan M. Pearce, Museums, Objects, and Collections: A Cultural Study (Wash-
ington dc: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1992); and Susan M. Pearce, On Col-
lecting: An Investigation into Collecting in the European Tradition (London: Rout-
ledge, 1995); James Clifford, “Objects and Selves” afterword to Objects and
Others: Essays on Museums and Material Culture, ed. George W. Stocking Jr. (Mad-
ison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1985), 236–46.
6. George W. Stocking Jr., “Essays on Museums and Material Culture,” in Stocking
Jr., Objects and Others, 3–14.
7. Anthony Shelton, “The Return of the Subject,” introduction to Collectors: Expres-
sions of Self and Other, ed. Anthony Shelton (London: Horniman Museum and
Gardens; Coimbra: Museu Anthropológico da Universidade de Coimbra, 2001),
11–22; Clifford, “Objects and Selves.”
8. Jean Baudrillard, “The System of Collecting,” trans. John Cardinal, in The Cultures
of Collecting, ed. John Elsner and Roger Cardinal (London: Reaktion Books, 1994),
7–24. On the sexual aspects of collecting, see Werner Muensterberger, Collecting:

Reinventing George Heye 87

 An Unruly Passion; Psychological Perspectives (New York: Harcourt, Brace,
1994).
9. Pearce, Museums, Objects, and Collections; and Brian Durrans, “Collecting the
Self in the Idiom of Science: Charles Hose and the Ethnography of Sarawak,” in
Collectors: Individuals and Institutions, ed. Anthony Shelton (London: Horniman
Museum and Gardens; Coimbra: Museu Anthropológico da Universidade de
Coimbra, 2001), 189–201.
10. Chris Gosden and Chantal Knowles, Collecting Colonialism: Material Culture and
Colonial Change (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), xix.
11. American museums’ collections often include masses of weapons collected during
American military campaigns, almost to the exclusion of other items from con-
quered peoples. For instance, some American Plains and Philippines collections
are almost entirely weaponry — clubs, bows and arrows, and bladed weapons — and
represent the literal disarming of Indigenous people during the Indian Wars and
the Spanish-American War. On museums’ simultaneous presentation of others
and colonial rule or hegemony, see Aldona Jonaitis, “Franz Boas, John Swanton,
and the New Haida Sculpture at the American Museum of Natural History,” in
The Early Years of Native American Art History, ed. Janet Catherine Berlo (Seattle:
University of Washington Press, 1992), 22–61.
12. On world’s fairs and Wild West shows, see Burton Benedict, “The Anthropology
of World’s Fairs,” in The Anthropology of World’s Fairs: San Francisco’s Panama
Pacific International Exposition of 1915, ed. Burton Benedict (Berkeley ca: Lowie
Museum of Anthropology, 1983), 1–65; L. G. Moses, Wild West Shows and the Im-
ages of American Indians, 1883–1933 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico
Press, 1996); and Robert W. Rydell, All the World’s a Fair: Visions of Empire at
American International Expositions, 1876–1916 (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1984). For relations between museums and travel writing, see Tony Ben-
nett, The Birth of the Museum: History, Theory, Politics (London: Routledge, 1995);
Stephen Greenblatt, Marvelous Possessions: The Wonder of the New World (Chi-
cago: University of Chicago Press, 1991); Mary Louise Pratt, Imperial Eyes: Travel
Writing and Transculturation (London: Routledge, 1992); and David Spurr, The
Rhetoric of Empire: Colonial Discourse in Journalism, Travel Writing, and Imperial
Administration (Durham nc: Duke University Press, 1993). On museums and
representations of the past, see David Lowenthal, The Past is a Foreign Coun-
try (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1985); and Ann McMullen, “Rele-
vance and Reflexivity: The Past and the Present in Museums” (unpublished
manuscript, 2006).
13. On temporal distancing, see Johannes Fabian, Time and the Other: How Anthro-
pology Makes Its Object (New York: Columbia University Press, 1983). For the role
of anthropology and primitive art collecting in museum representations, see Janet
Catherine Berlo and Ruth B. Phillips, “Our (Museum) World Turned Upside

88 mcmullen
 Down: Re-presenting Native American Arts,” Art Bulletin 77, no. 1 (1995): 6–10;
Jonaitis, “Franz Boas, John Swanton, and the New Haida Sculpture”; and Chris-
tina F. Kreps, Liberating Cultures: Cross-Cultural Perspectives on Museums, Cura-
tion and Heritage Preservation (London: Routledge, 2003).
14. W. Richard West Jr., “Museums and Native America: The New Collaboration,”
(paper, presented at the International Council of Museums–Germany conference,
Berlin, November 2003), http://icom-deutschland.de/docs/washington_west.pdf.
Art museums’ inclusion of Native objects came with the 1930 Exposition of Indian
Tribal Arts and the 1941 exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art. Both exhibi-
tions included objects borrowed from Heye’s mai. See John Sloan and Oliver La-
Farge, Introduction to American Indian Art (New York: Exposition of Indian Tribal
Arts, 1931); and Frederic H. Douglas and Rene D’Harnoncourt, Indian Art of the
United States (New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1941).
15. Ruth B. Phillips, “Why Not Tourist Art? Significant Silences in Native American
Museum Representations,” in After Colonialism: Imperial Histories and Postcolonial
Displacements, ed. Gyan Prakash (Princeton nj: Princeton University Press, 1995),
115. On museums, colonial collecting, and nostalgia, see Margaret Dubin, “Native
American Imagemaking and the Spurious Canon of the ‘Of-and-By,᾽” Visual An-
thropology Review 15, no. 1 (1999): 70–74; and Margaret Dubin, Native America
Collected: The Culture of an Art World (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico
Press, 2001).
16. On anthropology’s withdrawal from museums, see Stocking, “Essays on Museums
and Material Culture”; and Ira Jacknis, “Franz Boas and Exhibits: On the Limi-
tations of the Museum Method of Anthropology,” in Stocking Jr., Objects and Oth-
ers, 75–111. On objects and representation, see Pearce, Museums, Objects, and
Collections; and Steven Conn, Museums and American Intellectual Life, 1876–1926
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998). Mason is cited in Steven Conn, His-
tory’s Shadow: Native Americans and Historical Consciousness in the Nineteenth
Century (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004), 9. Speaking about the
peoples of the Americas, George H. Pepper (George Heye’s right-hand man) states,
“Having no written language, [they] left no records that can be woven into a con-
secutive story. . . . The student must evolve the story of the various prehistoric
tribes from what they have left behind them.” George H. Pepper, “The Museum
of the American Indian, Heye Foundation,” Geographical Review 2, no. 6 (1916):
405–6.
17. J. Alden Mason, “George G. Heye, 1874–1957,” Leaflets of the Museum of the Ameri-
can Indian, Heye Foundation 6 (1958): 11. It is difficult to know what Heye read at
this early point, but by 1904 he was said to have purchased the anthropologi-
cal publications of the amnh and was interested in those of the Peabody Museum
of Archaeology and Ethnology at Harvard. George Pepper to Frederick Ward
Putnam, June 19, 1904, nmai Archives, box oc87, folder 11. Notably, he does not

Reinventing George Heye 89

 appear to have succumbed to romantic notions about Indian people such as the
“myth of the Mound Builders” and instead probably concentrated on up-to-date
scientific-anthropology literature. For more on that myth, see Robert Silverberg,
Mound Builders of Ancient America: The Archaeology of a Myth (New York: New
York Graphic Society, 1968); and Conn, History’s Shadow.
18. Bruce Bernstein has noted that Heye’s use of three-by-five-inch cards, like those
used in library card catalogs, was a distinctly modern museum development.
Bruce Bernstein, e-mail message to author, October 9, 2007. In the late nineteenth
century, most museums used large-format, bound ledgers for cataloging. While
a few museums have retained this system (or have kept it only for recording ac-
cessions), others switched to the complete use of cards or used cards as an adjunct
to ledger-book cataloging. Heye’s use of cards rather than a ledger may have had
instrumental purposes: it is easier to delete an object or recatalog objects using a
card system. Duplicate sets of cards can also be arranged according to category or
geography, thus allowing a particular aspect of the collection to be seen at a glance;
but there is no evidence that Heye did this. His motivations for using cards rather
than a ledger for cataloging remain unclear. For early professional museum dis-
cussions on accession — and catalog-card systems, see Proceedings of the Ameri-
can Association of Museums, Records of the Sixth Annual Meeting Held at Bos-
ton, Massachusetts, May 23–25, 1911 (Baltimore: Waverly Press, 1911), 31–42.
19. These included the Hispanic Society of America, the American Geographical
Society, the American Numismatics Society, and the American Academy of Arts
and Letters.
20. This summary of Heye’s life is based on the professional obituaries J. Alden Ma-
son, “George G. Heye, 1874–1957”; and Samuel K. Lothrop, “George Gustav Heye,
1874–1956,” American Antiquity 23, no. 1 (1957): 66–67, which agree on all major
facts of Heye’s life. The figure of $10 million for Heye’s inheritance comes from a
more informal article, Kevin Wallace, “Slim-Shin’s Monument,” New Yorker, No-
vember 19, 1960. Figures for collections totals are derived from the nmai’s Scope
of Collections Description and were calculated using the museum’s computerized
collections database. The nmai’s current object holdings are estimated at 266,000
catalog records, representing 825,000 items. Each catalog number may represent
a single object or thousands of beads, hence the difference in the totals.
21. Mason, “George G. Heye, 1874–1957,” 11; Lothrop, “George Gustav Heye, 1874–
1956,” 66.
22. E. K. Burnett, “Recollections of E. K. Burnett” (transcripts of tapes, 1964), nmai
Archives, box vw, folder 13.
23. Edmund Carpenter identifies the anonymous professor — who provided this and
other quotes in Wallace, “Slim-Shin’s Monument” — as anthropologist Junius Bird,
who participated in expeditions funded by Heye and, after 1931, was curator of
South American archaeology at amnh. See Edmund S. Carpenter, “9/3428: Three

90 mcmullen
 Chapters from an Unfinished, Two-Volume Study of George Heye’s Museum of
the American Indian,” European Review of Native American Studies 15, no. 1 (2001):
1–12; and Edmund S. Carpenter, Two Essays: Chief & Greed (North Andover ma:
Persimmon Press, 2005). Bird’s animosity may stem from the fact that he was
among those dismissed when the mai lost funding after 1928 and that Heye chose
to invest remaining funds largely in continued collections purchases rather than
in staffing or expeditions. However, Bird was part of an mai-funded expedition
to Greenland in 1930.
24. Wallace, “Slim-Shin’s Monument.” Some sources suggest that Heye created the
mai as a tax shelter, but I can find no basis for this conclusion.
25. Frederick J. Dockstader, Indian Art of the Americas (New York: Museum of the
American Indian, 1973); and Frederick J. Dockstader, introduction to Masterworks
from the Museum of the American Indian (New York: Metropolitan Museum of
Art, 1973), 10.
26. Anna Curtenius Roosevelt and James G. E. Smith, eds., The Ancestors: Native Ar-
tisans of the Americas (New York: Museum of the American Indian, 1979);
U. Vincent Wilcox, “The Museum of the American Indian, Heye Foundation,”
American Indian Art Magazine 3, no. 2 (1978): 40; Roland W. Force, The Heye and
the Mighty: Politics and the Museum of the American Indian (Honolulu hi: Mechas
Press, 1999), 3–4.
27. Tom Hill, “A Backward Glimpse through the Museum Door,” introduction to
Creation’s Journey: Native American Identity and Belief, ed. Tom Hill and Richard
W. Hill Sr. (Washington dc: Smithsonian Institution Press), 19; Natasha Bonilla
Martinez, “An Indian Americas: nmai Photographic Archive Documents Indian
Peoples of the Western Hemisphere,” in Spirit Capture: Photographs from the Na-
tional Museum of the American Indian, ed. Tim Johnson (Washington dc: Smith-
sonian Institution Press, 1998), 29. Later exhibitions at the Heye Center do not
mention Heye except to note that specific items were purchased by him; see Jo-
seph D. Horse Capture and George P. Horse Capture, Beauty, Honor, and Tra-
dition: The Legacy of Plains Indian Shirts (Washington dc: National Museum of
the American Indian, 2001). In beginning this research, I suspected nmai rhet-
oric would differ depending on whether New York or national audiences were
addressed. However, available documents indicated only slight differences. Texts
for national consumption focus on the nmai as a Native place emphasizing Native
voice while those intended for New York audiences focus on the city as a cul-
tural capital, a Native place (contrasted with Ellis Island, the Statue of Liberty,
and diverse ethnic neighborhoods), and a center of intercultural world commerce;
see John Haworth, “New York City in Indian Possession: The George Gustav Heye
Center,” in Spirit of a Native Place: Building the National Museum of the American
Indian, ed. Duane Blue Spruce (Washington dc: National Museum of the Amer-
ican Indian, 2004), 133–49; and Gabrielle Tayac, “From the Deep: Native Layers of

Reinventing George Heye 91

 New York City,” in New Tribe New York: The Urban Vision Quest, ed. Gerald Mc-
Master (Washington dc: National Museum of the American Indian, 2005), 12–
19. The old mai is now often described in terms of New Yorkers’ fond memories
of its crammed cases, and they are said to sorely miss the presence of Heye’s col-
lection and look forward to its return to New York in planned exhibitions. Some
nmai staff at the gghc use the word repatriation to refer to use of the collec-
tions — permanently housed in Suitland, Maryland — in New York–based exhib-
its and make the rather unlikely suggestion that the mai and its collections figure
as largely in New Yorkers’ cultural consciousness as the more iconic American
Museum of Natural History, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, or the Museum
of Modern Art.
28. Clara Sue Kidwell, “Every Last Dishcloth: The Prodigious Collecting of George
Gustav Heye,” in Collecting Native America: 1870–1960, ed. Shepard Krech III and
Barbara A. Hail (Washington dc: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1999), 237. In 1917
mai fieldworker Donald Cadzow recorded what he called Heye’s “Golden Rule”:
“Every object collected add field tag/Material must be old/Hunting outfits/fishing
outfits/costumes/masks and ceremonial objects, also dance objects/household
utensils particularly stone and pottery dishes and lamps/Talismans, hunting charms,
all ivory carvings (old)/NO TOURIST MATERIAL.” Field notes by Donald Cadzow,
1917, nmai Archives, box oc24, folder 22. Although many stress this aspect of
Heye’s collecting, early twentieth-century anthropologists and the large muse-
ums that purchased their collections maintained the same attitudes, privileging
earlier works over more recent pieces, including “crafts” made for sale; see Phil-
lips, “Why Not Tourist Art?”
29. Lawrence M. Small, “A Passionate Collector,” Smithsonian Magazine, November
2000, http://www.smithsonianmag.com/history-archaeology/small_nov00.html.
The Smithsonian accepted the personal collections of Charles Lang Freer (1854–
1919), Dr. Arthur M. Sackler (1913–1987), and Joseph H. Hirshhorn (1899–1981)
and made them into separate Smithsonian museums that include their names,
but these benefactors have never been spoken of as Heye has been. Origins of the
Smithsonian’s National Museum of African Art in the personal collection of War-
ren H. Robbins and his Museum of African Art are almost completely invisible;
see Smithsonian Institution Archives, “Histories of the Smithsonian Institution’s
Museums and Research Centers,” Smithsonian Institution, http://siarchives.si.edu/
history/exhibits/historic/history.htm.
30. West, “Museums and Native America”; and James Pepper Henry, “Challenges
in Managing Culturally Sensitive Collections at the National Museum of the
American Indian,” in Stewards of the Sacred, ed. Lawrence E. Sullivan and Alison
Edwards (Washington dc: American Association of Museums, 2004), 105–12.
31. Bruce Bernstein, “The National Museum of the American Indian Collections,”
American Indian Art Magazine 29, no. 4 (2004): 52–55; Douglas E. Evelyn, “The

92 mcmullen
 Smithsonian’s National Museum of the American Indian: An International Insti-
tution of Living Cultures,” The Public Historian 28, no. 2 (2006): 50–55; and Liz
Hill, “A Home for the Collections: The Cultural Resources Center,” in Blue Spruce,
Spirit of a Native Place, 117–31. By now, readers should recognize “boxcar” as a
theme. However, no mai employee ever mentioned collections being shipped from
the field in boxcars, and I doubt it ever occurred. However, after Wallace’s anon-
ymous professor characterized Heye as “what we call a boxcar collector,” the
phrase has been repeated so often that it has taken on the flavor of fact, as evi-
denced in nmai director Rick West’s quote.
32. Mary Jane Lenz, “George Gustav Heye: The Museum of the American Indian,” in
Blue Spruce, Spirit of a Native Place, 99, 115; and Gerald McMaster and Clifford
M. Trafzer, Native Universes: Voices of Indian America (Washington dc: National
Museum of the American Indian, 2004).
33. Elsewhere, Patricia Hilden has suggested that the nmai is extremely protective
of its image. Hilden observes that negative feedback on exhibits and programs
were quickly removed from comment books left to gather visitor responses, leav-
ing only positive comments for visitors to read before adding their own. Patricia
Hilden, “Race for Sale: Narratives of Possession in Two ‘Ethnic’ Museums,” The
Drama Review 44, no. 3 (2000): 33n7, http://www.csun.edu/~vcspc00g/603/race
forsale.pdf .
34. Drawing on Heye’s obituary, Mason, and Wallace, the nmai biography of Heye also
recounts the mai’s 1938 return of a Hidatsa sacred bundle, calling it “an unknown
predicator of the repatriation section of the legislation establishing the National
Museum of the American Indian”; nmai, “George Gustav Heye.” See also “George
Heye Dies: Museum Founder — Authority on Indian Tribes Endowed a Founda-
tion for Scientific Collections,” New York Times, January 21, 1957; Mason, “George
G. Heye, 1874–1957”; Wallace, “Slim-Shin’s Monument.” As Ira Jacknis suggests,
this event was “not what it appeared to be.” Ira Jacknis, “A New Thing? The nmai
in Historical and Institutional Perspective,” in “Critical Engagements with the Na-
tional Museum of the American Indian,” ed. Amy Lonetree and Sonya Atalay,
special issue, American Indian Quarterly 30, nos. 3–4 (2006): 533. Kidwell further
suggests that Heye’s agreement to return the bundle was a public relations ploy,
and Carpenter indicates that the publicity angle was suggested by none other
than John Collier. Kidwell, “Every Last Dishcloth”; and Carpenter, Two Essays,
105. The museum’s board stated, “This is in no way a recognition on our part of
any legal or moral obligation to return the bundle.” Carpenter, Two Essays, 106.
35. Though nmai director W. Richard West Jr. is often referred to as its “founding
director,” this tends to erase the mai and its museum functions as the nmai’s pre-
decessor and George Heye as that museum’s founding director.
36. Richard West, “Native Treasures,” interview by Jeffrey Brown, NewsHour with
Jim Lehrer, September 21, 2004, http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/entertainment/

Reinventing George Heye 93

 july-dec04/museum_9-21.html; Reynolds, “Struggle to Save the Heye Collection”;
Ellen Herscher, “A Museum to Right Past Wrongs,” Archaeology, December 6,
1999, http://www.archaeology.org/online/features/amindian/index.html; and Clines,
“American Tribes Prepare Their National Showcase,” and see also Kidwell, “Ev-
ery Last Dishcloth.” Press coverage was voluminous and repeated many of the
same themes and phrases. See also Francis X. Clines, “A Gathering of Treasures
and Tribes,” New York Times, March 27, 2000, http://query.nytimes.com/gst/full
page.html?res=9A04E4DC113DF934A15750C0A9669C8B63; Herman Lebovics,
“Post-Colonial Museums: How the French and American Models Differ,” His-
tory News Network, September 13, 2004, http://hnn.us/articles/6939.html; Judy
Nichols, “Sharing Tradition with the World,” Arizona Republic, September 18,
2004; Elizabeth Olson, “A Museum of Indians That Is Also for Them,” New York
Times, August 29, 2004, http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=9500E0
D7113FF93AA2575BC0A9629C8B63; John Roach, “At New American Indian Mu-
seum, Artifacts Are ‘Alive,’” National Geographic News, September 21, 2004, http://
news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2004/09/0914_040913_indians_exhibits.html;
and Lyric Wallwork Winik, “To Reconcile a Tragic Past,” Parade Magazine, Sep-
tember 5, 2004.
37. Douglas Cole, Captured Heritage: The Scramble for Northwest Coast Artifacts, (Se-
attle: University of Washington Press, 1985), 216; and Berlo and Phillips, “Our
(Museum) World,” 7.
38. James E. Snead, “Science, Commerce, and Control: Patronage and the Develop-
ment of Anthropological Archaeology in the Americas,” American Anthropolo-
gist 101, no. 2 (1999): 264.
39. Jacknis, “A New Thing?,” 516; Cole, Captured Heritage, 217. On the inflation of the
collection’s size, see Hilden, “Race for Sale”; Patricia Penn Hilden and Shari M.
Huhndorf, “Performing ‘Indian’ in the National Museum of the American Indian,”
Social Identities 5, no. 2 (1999): 161–83; and Shari M. Huhndorf, Going Native:
Indians in the American Cultural Imagination (Ithaca ny: Cornell University Press,
2001).
40. Edmund Carpenter, who has examined Heye’s life and motives, denies that much
of the collection was stolen from Native owners: “Such pieces exist, of course, but
are much rarer than one might suppose. . . . There are certainly stolen objects in
the Heye collection, but I know of none stolen from Indians. Stealing from res-
ervations just wasn’t George Heye’s style. He loved to acquire in bulk, and that
meant from existing collections. Above all, he loved to buy and sell.” Carpenter,
“9/3428,” 15.
41. Freud suggested that fetishistic collecting resulted from the redirection of surplus
libido; and since Heye was said to be a man of appetites, fetishism may be a pos-
sible explanation. Pearce, Museums, Objects, and Collections. On the other hand,
Roy Ellen suggests that fetishists transform persons or social relations into objects

94 mcmullen
 to control them, and Heye’s perceived disinterest in living Indians may rule out
true fetishism. Roy Ellen, “Fetishism,” Man 23, no 2. (1988): 213–35. For other stud-
ies on collectors and collecting, see Pearce, On Collecting; Muensterberger, Col-
lecting; and John Elsner and Roger Cardinal, eds., The Cultures of Collecting (Lon-
don: Reaktion Books, 1994).
42. True collectors are defined by their vision of what a complete collection might
be; their enjoyment in building, ordering, and classifying their collections; and
their understanding of how items fit into the whole. On Heye’s attitudes toward his
collection, see Lothrop, “George Gustav Heye, 1874–1956”; Mason, “George G.
Heye, 1874–1957”; Burnett, “Recollections of E. K. Burnett”; Wallace, “Slim-Shin’s
Monument”; and Force, Heye and the Mighty. For collectors’ visions, see Pearce
Museums, Objects, and Collections; and Susan Stewart, On Longing: Narratives of
the Miniature, the Gigantic, the Souvenir, and the Collection (Durham nc: Duke
University Press, 1993).
43. Shepard Krech III, introduction to Krech and Hail, Collecting Native America, 10.
Horniman began collecting in the 1860s, filling his house and opening it to the
public and, in 1901, opening a separate building. Pitt Rivers’s life closely resem-
bles Heye’s. Beginning somewhat modestly, the collections of Pitt Rivers and Heye
both grew rapidly following inheritances, and both men sought alliances with ex-
isting museums but wanted independence and hired their own staff. Heye, Horni-
man, and Pitt Rivers all began by buying individual items and later focused on
purchasing many large collections that had been made by others. On Frederick
John Horniman, see Ken Teague, “In the Shadow of the Palace: Frederick J. Horni-
man and His Collection,” in Shelton, Collectors: Expressions of Self and Other,
111–36; and Anthony Shelton, “Rational Passions: Frederick John Horniman and
Institutional Collections,” in Shelton, Collectors: Expressions of Self and Other,
205–24. On Pitt Rivers, see William Ryan Chapman, “Arranging Ethnology:
A. H. L. F. Pitt Rivers and the Typological School,” in Stocking Jr., Objects and
Others, 15–48.
44. Purchase of the southwestern ceramic collection from Henry Hales — and cre-
ation of the catalog — was prompted by anthropologists George Pepper and Mar-
shall Saville. Jacknis also recognizes purchase of the Hales collection and the
beginning of the catalog as significant to Heye’s move from private to systematic
collection. The value Heye placed on the Hales collection is indicated by the fact
that the first object in the catalog is from that collection and not the Navajo shirt
that began his personal collection. See Kidwell, “Every Last Dishcloth”; Lenz,
“George Gustav Heye”; and Jacknis, “A New Thing?” In 1916 George Pepper indi-
cated that Heye had become serious about a museum fifteen years earlier, and
Force cites correspondence between Heye and Huntington. See Pepper, “Museum
of the American Indian”; and Force, Heye and the Mighty. On Heye’s Latin Ameri-
can research, see Carpenter, Two Essays; Pepper, “Museum of the American In-

Reinventing George Heye 95

 dian”; mai, “Aims and Objects of the Museum of the American Indian, Heye
Foundation,” Indian Notes and Monographs 33 (New York: Museum of the Ameri-
can Indian, Heye Foundation, 1922); Kidwell, “Every Last Dishcloth”; and Jacknis,
“A New Thing?”
45. In 1908 George Gordon of the University Museum agreed to house and exhibit
Heye’s collection. Until 1916 Heye served on the University Museum board and
funded North American expeditions and excavations. Despite the fact that the
work was done under the auspices of the University Museum and potentially to
benefit it, the materials collected were cataloged using Heye’s numbering system
rather than Penn’s, which suggests that Heye never intended to merge his col-
lection with the University Museum. Heye collections were withdrawn and moved
to New York after 1916. See “Scientific News and Notes,” Science 29, no. 736 (1909):
225; Carpenter, Two Essays; Kidwell, “Every Last Dishcloth”; Force, The Heye and
the Mighty; and Lucy Fowler Williams, Guide to the North American Ethnographic
Collections at the University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthro-
pology (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and
Anthropology, 2002).
46. See Conn, History’s Shadow; Snead, “Science, Commerce, and Control”; Williams,
Guide to the North American Ethnographic Collections; Jacknis, “A New Thing?”;
and Jonaitis, “Franz Boas, John Swanton, and the New Haida Sculpture.” The
Brooklyn Museum may have competed with the amnh and Heye, but it main-
tained an ethnographic art focus and lacked Heye’s resources. Diana Fane, “New
Questions for ‘Old Things’: The Brooklyn Museum’s Zuni Collection,” in Berlo,
Early Years of Native American Art History, 62–87. The Anthropological Papers of
the American Museum of Natural History between 1907 (the series’ inception) and
1916 indicate ethnographic and ethnological emphasis over archaeology.
47. Kidwell, “Every Last Dishcloth,” 243. Heye maintained a penchant for hiring non-
academics, like himself, as well as individuals outside his own class, potentially
avoiding an ivory-tower mentality or simply hiring those he liked. Before the
Bronx Annex was built, staff members were divided between “upstairs” and
“downstairs.” George Heye, Frank Utley, Jesse Nusbaum, William C. Orchard (an
English artist and formerly an amnh preparator), Edwin F. Coffin (a former race-
car driver), Charles Turbyfill (a livery stable worker picked up during the Na-
coochee Mound excavations), Amos Oneroad (A. B. Skinner’s Dakota informant
and driver), Donald Cadzow, and Foster Saville (Marshall’s brother) were upstairs;
more academic types were downstairs: Frederick Webb Hodge (formerly chief
ethnologist at the Bureau of American Ethnology), Marshall Saville (first curator
of Mexican and Central American Archaeology at the amnh and later at Co-
lumbia), George H. Pepper (amnh), Alanson B. Skinner (Columbia, Harvard, and
amnh), and Mark Raymond Harrington (amnh and Columbia). On mai em-
ployees, see Carpenter, Two Essays; Kidwell, “Every Last Dishcloth”; Jacknis, “A

96 mcmullen
 New Thing?”; and Mark Raymond Harrington, “Memories of My Work with
George G. Heye,” n.d., nmai Archives, box oc 79, folder 5. We should also remem-
ber that the mai had no women as professional staff members and, as a workplace,
seems to have resembled a private men’s club. This air of masculinity may have
been a sign of the times, but it may also have encouraged focus on “old Indians”
who — as warriors — were male as well as a lack of attention on later works, includ-
ing commercial crafts made by women. Phillips, “Why Not Tourist Art?” On
anthropologists’ interest in men’s objects versus collectors’ interest in those made
by women, see Marvin Cohodas, “Louisa Keyser and the Cohns: Mythmaking
and Basket Making in the American West,” in Berlo, Early Years of Native Ameri-
can Art History, 88–133.
48. Serving New York was important, both for Heye and others. The amnh was built
by those who wanted to “bring glory to their city,” including Collis Huntington
and his son Archer, who supported Heye and his museum; see Jacknis, “Franz
Boas and Exhibits.” Collections exchanges between Heye or mai and New York
museums — such as amnh and the Brooklyn Museum — were rarer that those
with other institutions. Carpenter suggests that amnh and George Heye made
many exchanges, but these occurred largely around 1905. Likewise, Brooklyn
Museum exchanges with mai occurred only during Dockstader’s tenure. For pub-
lic auctions, Heye and the Brooklyn Museum, amnh, and the University Museum
were said to avoid competition; see Carpenter, Two Essays; and Burnett, “Recol-
lections of E. K. Burnett.” I suspect that Heye’s goal was to bring collections to
New York; he did not feel compelled to secure objects from New York museums
for the sake of adding them to mai.
49. Force, Heye and the Mighty, 10.
50. Pepper “Museum of the American Indian,” 401.
51. Pepper “Museum of the American Indian,” 415. Pepper reiterates the public em-
phasis of the museum, stating, “The founding of the Museum of the American
Indian marks the end of personal effort and opens up a broad field wherein all
who are interested in the American Indian can work,” and “from a private un-
dertaking, superintended and financed by an individual, it has become a great
public benefaction — a benefaction that needs the assistance of all who are inter-
ested in the preservation of material that will help . . . better understanding of the
primitive tribes of the two Americas.” Pepper, “Museum of the American Indian,”
416, 418.
52. mai, “Aims and Objects,” 3. Publications that were funded by Heye before mai’s
creation — such as this one, from which this section takes its name — were subse-
quently reprinted by the museum, reinforcing perception of the museum’s schol-
arly contributions at its inception; see mai, “List of Publications of the Museum
of the American Indian, Heye Foundation,” Indian Notes and Monographs 36
(New York: Museum of the American Indian, Heye Foundation, 1922). After Heye’s

Reinventing George Heye 97

 death the museum’s purpose shifted and was stated, “collection and preservation
of material culture objects made by the natives of the western hemisphere . . . [to]
afford serious students at the undergraduate and graduate levels every facility for
research.” mai, “The History of the Museum,” Indian Notes and Monographs, misc.
ser., 56 (New York: Museum of the American Indian, Heye Foundation, 1964):
3–4.
53. Carpenter, Two Essays, 85. In Heye’s obituary, Samuel K. Lothrop makes clear that
staff members saw their work as building a museum, not supporting a private
collection: “We were all of us, I think, drawn towards Heye by the prospect of a
new dream museum.” Lothrop, “George Gustav Heye,” 66.
54. Kidwell, “Every Last Dishcloth”; Phillips, “Why Not Tourist Art?”; Mark Ray-
mond Harrington, “Cuba before Columbus,” Indian Notes and Monographs, misc.
ser., 17 (New York: Museum of the American Indian, Heye Foundation, 1921).
55. mai, “Aims and Objects”; mai, “Guide to the Museum,” Indian Notes and Mono-
graphs, unnumbered (New York: Museum of the American Indian, Heye Foun-
dation, 1922).
56. While Heye was developing his museum, major changes in exhibition occurred
elsewhere. The Pitt Rivers Museum focused on evolutionary typologies, while the
Smithsonian’s National Museum of Natural History — opened in 1910 — followed
culture areas. The Smithsonian and amnh included life groups and dioramas,
drawn from trends at the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair. See Bennett, Birth of the
Museum; and Tony Bennett, Pasts Beyond Memory: Evolution, Museums, Colo-
nialism (London: Routledge, 2004); Chapman, “Arranging Ethnology”; John C.
Ewers, A Century of American Indian Exhibits in the Smithsonian Institution,
Smithsonian Report for 1958, 1959, 513–52; Jacknis, “Franz Boas and Exhibits”;
and Rydell, All the World’s a Fair. The mai did not include life groups, although
some models illustrated artists’ conceptions of prehistoric village and home life.
As in other things, Heye had his own ideas about what exhibits ought to do and
eschewed those that did not fit his sense of museum economy, which invested
much more in accumulating collections than creating visitor-friendly exhibits for
an unlettered public. Where other museums depended on labels to educate, lack
of labeling at mai — and emphasis on “study collections” for “serious students” —
probably created a sense of elitism. For his museum, Pitt Rivers emphasized
autodidactic exhibit experiences, allowing visitors to teach themselves without
reading; but mai exhibits probably required considerable familiarity with the sub-
ject matter and materials, emphasizing research rather than pedagogy. Portable
mai school exhibits in the 1940s included much more labeling than the museum’s
permanent exhibits. Study collections were also used elsewhere, probably begin-
ning with the British Museum in the 1850s; see Bennett, Birth of the Museum.
57. On Heye’s control over the collection, see Carpenter, Two Essays; Mason, “George
G. Heye, 1874–1957”; and Burnett, “Recollections of E. K. Burnett.” Without his

98 mcmullen
 staff, Heye also lost contacts to locate collections; regions where he could not
identify appropriate collections for purchase are notably weaker than areas where
anthropologists assisted him. As time went on, fewer anthropologists were in-
volved in material culture research and collection, thus Heye could probably not
have attracted the same kind of staff even if he had had funding for them. On
specific collections strengths, see nmai, “Scope of Collections Description.” For
the mai’s later history, see Force, Heye and the Mighty, 362, 381–82.
58. The nmai’s mission statement reads, “The National Museum of the American
Indian is committed to advancing knowledge and understanding of the Native
cultures of the Western Hemisphere, past, present, and future, through partner-
ship with Native people and others. The museum works to support the continu-
ance of culture, traditional values, and transitions in contemporary Native life.”
59. Hilden and Huhndorf, “Performing ‘Indian,’” 163.
60. Force, Heye and the Mighty, 381–82; see also Suzan Shown Harjo, “nmai: A Prom-
ise America Is Keeping,” Native Peoples, 9, no. 3 (1996), 28–34, http://www.native
peoples . com / article / articles / 223 / 1 / nmai-A-Promise-America-Is-Keeping / Page1
.html. Force states that Inouye’s involvement stemmed from his initial proposal
to reinter all Native American human remains from Smithsonian collections on
the National Mall to create a Native American memorial. Force’s narrative privi-
leges Inouye’s efforts to create the nmai, while Suzan Shown Harjo suggests
Inouye’s first concern was repatriation of human remains and other cultural ob-
jects and that saving the mai was secondary.
61. See U.S. Senate, An Act to Establish the National Museum of the American Indian
within the Smithsonian Institution, and for Other Purposes, Public Law 101-185,
101st Cong., 1st sess. (1989), http://anthropology.si.edu/repatriation/pdf/nmai
_act.pdf; and Force, Heye and the Mighty, 402, 445. John McCain, Guest Essay, Na-
tive Peoples 8, no. 1 (1995), quoted in Harjo, “nmai.” For a comparison of national-
ist tactics used for the nmai and France’s Musée du Quai Branly, see Lebovics,
“Post-Colonial Museums.”
62. Moynihan, 101st Cong., 1st sess., Congressional Record (November 14, 1989), quoted
in Force, Heye and the Mighty, 443–44; on assuming control, see Hilden and
Huhndorf, “Performing ‘Indian,’” 167.
63. Jacknis, “A New Thing?”; and Paul Chaat Smith, “Ghost in the Machine,” in Strong
Hearts: Native American Visions and Voices, ed. Peggy Roalf (New York: Aperture,
1995), 9. An early architectural planning document does not articulate Native
control over the museum: “The objectives of nmai continue the Smithsonian’s
mission to increase and diffuse knowledge, and to interpret the pluralistic nature
of this nation’s social, ethnic and cultural composition”; Venturi, Scott Brown,
and Associates, The Way of the People, nmai Master Facilities Programming, Re-
vised Draft Report (Philadelphia: Venturi, Scott Brown, and Associates, 1991),
30.

Reinventing George Heye 99

64. On Deloria and Harjo, see Reynolds, “The Struggle to save the Heye Collection”;
Lloyd New and Vine Deloria are quoted in Force, Heye and the Mighty, 203, 83.
65. William C. Sturtevant, “Repatriation Policy and the Heye Collection,” Museum
Anthropology 15, no. 2 (1991): 29–30; W. Richard West Jr., “The National Museum
of the American Indian Repatriation Policy: Reply to William C. Sturtevant,”
Museum Anthropology 15, no. 3 (1991): 13–14; and Edmund Carpenter, “Repatria-
tion Policy and the Heye Collection,” Museum Anthropology 15, no. 3 (1991): 15–18.
nmai repatriations can also support Indigenous sovereignty, especially where it
has traditionally been ignored. A newspaper article documenting the nmai’s re-
patriation of human remains to Cuba made this apparent: “For the first time in
over 500 years, the Taíno descendant population of Caridad de los Indios will be
recognized in a formal international encounter. On behalf of their community,
Cacique Panchito Ramirez and the elders of la Rancheria, will receive the human
remains of seven of their ancestors.” “Smithsonian’s nmai Returns Taíno Remains
to Cuba: After 500 Years the Taíno Community Continues to Gain Recognition
and Respect,” La Voz del Pueblo Taíno 5, no. 3 (July–September 2002): 1.
66. Manuel Ríos Morales, “Community as Identity,” in All Roads Are Good: Native
Voices on Life and Culture (Washington dc: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1994),
158. Repossession of narrative and history is significant to the regrowth of nation-
alist expression. The nineteenth-century move toward making science and eth-
nology the only way to write about Indians both dehistoricized and denation-
alized Native people, because only nations could be expected to have histories;
see Conn, History’s Shadow, 23.
67. Richard West, quoted in Marilyn Christiano and Shelley Gollust, “This is America —
National Museum of the American Indian,” Voice of America broadcast, September
20, 2004, http://www.voanews.com/specialenglish/archive/2004-09/a-2004-09-20-
2-1.cfm. The nmai’s philosophical perspective of Native self-representation
through direct self-expression has been most widely disseminated by director Rick
West in his writings and interviews; see W. Richard West Jr., “Research and Schol-
arship at the National Museum of the American Indian: The New ‘Inclusiveness,’”
Museum Anthropology 17, no. 1 (1993): 5–8; W. Richard West Jr., “The National Mu-
seum of the American Indian: Perspectives on Museums in the 21st Century,”
Museum Anthropology 18, no. 3 (1994): 53–58; West, “Museums and Native Amer-
ica”; Brown, “Native Treasures”; Clines, “Gathering of Treasures and Tribes”; Her-
scher, “Museum to Right Past Wrongs”; and Amanda J. Cobb, “Interview with
W. Richard West, Director, National Museum of the American Indian,” in “Na-
tional Museum of the American Indian,” ed. Amanda J. Cobb, special issue, Ameri-
can Indian Quarterly 29, nos. 3–4 (2005): 517–37; and Amanda J. Cobb, “The
National Museum of the American Indian as Cultural Sovereignty,” American
Quarterly 57, no. 2 (2005): 485–506. On the difficulties of successfully carrying
out this strategy, see Cynthia Chavez Lamar, “Collaborative Exhibit Development

100 mcmullen
 at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of the American Indian,” in The National
Museum of the American Indian: Critical Conversations, ed. Amy Lonetree
and Amanda J. Cobb (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2008); Hilden
and Huhndorf, “Performing ‘Indian’”; Julia Klein, “Native Americans in Mu-
seums: Lost in Translation?” apf Reporter 19, no. 4 (2001), http://www.aliciapat
terson.org/APF1904/Klein/Klein.html; and McMullen, “Relevance and Reflex-
ivity.” For similar work by other institutions, see essays in Laura Peers and Ali-
son K. Brown, eds., Museums and Source Communities (New York: Routledge,
2003); Laura Peers, Playing Ourselves: Interpreting Native Histories at Historic Re-
constructions (Lanham md: AltaMira Press, 2007); and Ann McMullen, “The Cur-
rency of Consultation and Collaboration,” Museum Anthropology Review, 2, no. 2
(2008).
68. Cobb, “Interview with W. Richard West.”
69. nmai, “George Gustav Heye.”
70. On nmai collections care, see Craig Howe, “Sovereignty and Cultural Property
Policy in Museums” (paper presented at the Property Rights and Museum Prac-
tice workshop, University of Chicago Cultural Policy Center, winter 2000), http://
culturalpolicy.uchicago.edu/workshop/howe.html; Nancy B. Rosoff, “Integrating
Native Views into Museum Procedures: Hope and Practice at the National Mu-
seum of the American Indian,” Museum Anthropology 22, no. 1 (1998): 33–42;
and Henry, “Challenges in Managing Culturally Sensitive Collections.” Tom Biolsi
notes that such steps are increasingly common as tribal sovereignty — understood
as dominion over bound lands — is extended to other domains of power and influ-
ence outside those boundaries. He also suggests that the nmai has become a
“national indigenous space,” over which collective Native sovereignty has been
cast; Thomas Biolsi, “Imagined Geographies: Sovereignty, Indigenous Space, and
American Indian Struggle,” American Ethnologist 32, no. 2 (2005): 248. The degree
to which tribal nations in the United States have contributed financially to the
nmai may also indicate the museum’s perception and designation as a national
Indigenous space; see Harjo, “nmai.”
71. Cobb, “National Museum of the American Indian as Cultural Sovereignty,” 486.
72. Paul Chaat Smith has suggested that the nmai, with Indian gaming and repatria-
tion legislation, is a very large payment on America’s “moral debt” to Native
people; personal communication with the author, August 7, 2007. Ruth Phillips has
also questioned whether museum collaborations with Native communities rep-
resent “symbolic restitution.” Ruth B. Phillips, “Community Collaboration in Ex-
hibitions,” introduction to Museums and Source Communities, ed. Peers and
Brown, 157–70.
73. Bennett, Birth of the Museum.
74. nmai, Strategic Plan: 2006–2008 (Washington dc: National Museum of the Ameri-

Reinventing George Heye 101

 can Indian, 2005); nmai, “Intellectual Framework for the Collections and Col-
lecting Plan.”
75. Hilden and Huhndorf, “Performing ‘Indian,’” 162. On master narratives, see Ed-
ward M. Bruner, “Ethnography as Narrative,” in The Anthropology of Experience,
ed. Victor Turner and Edward M. Bruner (Urbana: University Illinois Press, 1986),
135–55.
76. Robert Warrior suggests that Native writings that stress idealism and essentialism
and overemphasize authenticity and tradition are potentially dangerous and limit-
ing; I suggest that similar museum products are equally limiting and present the
public with images that fit preconceptions but do little to serve Native people and
sovereign expressions; see Robert Allen Warrior, Tribal Secrets: Recovering Ameri-
can Indian Intellectual Traditions (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press,
1995). Scott Lyons notes that desire to repossess tradition and culture admits loss
and can prompt a sense of guilt. This suggests that the traditional — however re-
claimed or reintroduced — remains a desired state for many, thus furthering de-
pendence on older models rather than negotiation of new Native expressions.
See Scott Richard Lyons, “Crying for Revision: Postmodern Indians and Rhetorics
of Tradition,” in Making and Unmaking the Prospects for Rhetoric, ed. Theresa
Enos (Mahwah nj: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, 1997), 123–31.
77. I cannot do justice here to this expanding body of literature, but on intellectual
sovereignty, see Georges E. Sioui, For an Amerindian Autohistory: An Essay on the
Foundations of a Social Ethic, trans. Sheila Fishman (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s
University Press, 1992); and Robert Allen Warrior, Tribal Secrets and the Peo-
ple and the Word: Reading Native Nonfiction (Minneapolis: University of Minne-
sota Press, 2005). On appropriations of spirituality, see Lisa Aldred, “Plastic
Shamans and Astroturf Sundances: New Age Commercialization of Native Ameri-
can Spirituality,” American Indian Quarterly 24, no. 3 (2000): 329–52; and Laurie
Ann Whitt, “Cultural Imperialism and the Marketing of Native America,” in Con-
temporary Native American Cultural Issues, ed. Duane Champagne (Walnut Creek
ca: AltaMira Press, 1999), 169–92. For reclaiming Indigenous tribal names, see
Cornel Pewewardy, “Renaming Ourselves on Our Own Terms: Race, Tribal Na-
tions, and Representation in Education,” Indigenous Nations Studies Journal 1,
no. 1 (2000): 11–28. On rhetorical sovereignty, see Lyons, “Crying for Revision”;
and Scott Richard Lyons, “Rhetorical Sovereignty: What Do American Indians
Want from Writing?” College Composition and Communication 51, no. 3 (2000):
447–68. For literary nationalism, see Jace Weaver, That the People Might Live:
Native American Literatures and Native American Community (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2007); Jace Weaver, Craig S. Womack, and Robert Warrior,
American Indian Literary Nationalism (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico
Press, 2006); and Craig S. Womack, Red on Red: Native American Literary Sepa-
ratism (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1999). On political sover-

102 mcmullen
 eignty, see Taiaiake Alfred, Peace, Power, and Righteousness: An Indigenous Mani-
festo (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999).
78. Jacki Thompson Rand, “Why I Can’t Visit the National Museum of the American
Indian: Reflections of an Accidental Privileged Insider, 1989–1994,” Common-Place
7, no. 4 (2007), http://www.common-place.org/vol-07/no-04/rand. In many ways,
the nmai has reemphasized old museum traditions of dependence on objects as
storytelling devices or illustrations. This dependence results in major parts of the
Native story remaining untold or being accompanied by items that visitors do
not find worthy of inclusion in what they have been told is the world’s best collec-
tion of “Indian stuff ”; see Chavez, “Collaborative Exhibit Development.” The
nmai’s continued reliance on objects is especially surprising considering the points
included in an early programming document: “Although . . . objects held by the
Smithsonian are unsurpassed . . . Native American people are not ‘object-oriented.’
. . . The picture of Native American life should . . . not . . . over-emphasize the ob-
jects themselves over the people and culture.” Venturi, Scott Brown, and Associ-
ates, Way of the People, 40.
79. Elizabeth Cook-Lynn, Why I Can’t Read Wallace Stegner and Other Essays: A
Tribal Voice (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1996). The intellectual free-
dom of university scholars, as compared to those in museums, may be no small
matter in this decision; political and intellectual structures of existing museums
may not allow complete expression of Native cultural sovereignty, except perhaps
in tribal museums. See McMullen, “Relevance and Reflexivity”; and McMullen,
“Currency of Consultation”. However, following Robert Warrior’s thoughts on
Native intellectualism, Native museum work must remain engaged with the wider
world and not be conducted only in tribally controlled domains; see Warrior,
Tribal Secrets.
80. Native artists have used their own art and others’ to talk about political and
cultural sovereignty, but more striking examples come from contemporary Na-
tive photographers’ readings of historic Native imagery and their interpretations
of survivance — as Anishinabe author Gerald Vizenor has used it — and of sov-
ereignty strategies visible therein. See Gerald McMaster and Lee-Ann Martin, eds.,
Indigena: Contemporary Native Perspectives in Canadian Art (Vancouver: Doug-
las and McIntyre, 1993); Theresa Harlan, “Creating a Visual History: A Question
of Ownership,” in Roalf, Strong Hearts; Theresa Harlan, “Indigenous Photogra-
phies: A Space for Indigenous Realities,” in Native Nations: Journeys in American
Photography, ed. Jane Alison (London: Barbican Art Gallery, 1998), 233–45; Jolene
Rickard, “Sovereignty: A Line in the Sand,” in Roalf, Strong Hearts, 51–54; Jolene
Rickard, “The Occupation of Indigenous Space as ‘Photograph,’” in Alison, Native
Nations, 57–71; Hulleah Tsinhnahjinnie, “When Is a Photograph Worth a Thou-
sand Words?” in Alison, Native Nations, 41–55; and Dubin, “Native American
Imagemaking.”

Reinventing George Heye 103

81. Lyons, “Rhetorical Sovereignty,” 449. See also Weaver, That the People Might Live;
and Womack, Red on Red. Native people put in the position of “reading” objects
often refuse to comment on items they have identified as “not ours,” suggesting
that they recognize that culturally specific, literal readings are desired and decline
to offer comment or interpretation on a culture other than their own.
82. Warrior, Tribal Secrets. Ruth Phillips and others in the Great Lakes Research Alli-
ance for the Study of Aboriginal Arts and Cultures (grasac), based at Carleton
University in Ottawa, Ontario, are currently drawing on museums and archives to
create a shared Web-accessible database of objects and resources to encourage
interdisciplinary research on Great Lakes visual culture. While some individuals
involved in these research projects are not “material culture specialists,” work al-
ready underway on the relation of Indigenous diplomacy, rhetoric, wampum belts,
and treaties promises to lay new ground for intertextualization of material culture
and other expressive forms.
83. Venturi, Way of the People.
84. As Hupa tribal member Merv George Jr. said of the nmai, “They have these items.
But they don’t have the stories that go along with the items”; interview with Merv
George Jr. quoted in Klein, “Native Americans in Museums.” Despite the richness
and complexity of the collections, Heye’s collecting and curatorial practices and
often pervasive disregard for objects’ documentation can limit the collections’
potential. Descriptions of mai work during his lifetime recount confusion, loss,
or destruction of field notes, excavation records, and other documentation, char-
acterized as a luxury Heye could not always afford to maintain. These losses sig-
nificantly reduce the collections’ value for almost all uses. nmai, “Intellectual
Framework for the Collections and Collecting Plan”; and nmai, “Scope of Col-
lections Description.”
85. This is connected with Fabian’s “denial of coevalness,” which suggests that eth-
nography temporally distances its object from its recorder by making it impossible
for both to exist in the same place at the same time. Living peoples whose works
are placed in museums as ethnology or primitive art face the same difficulty of
bridging the time gap created by this distancing and museum objectification of
material culture as frozen life. See Fabian, Time and the Other; Janet Catherine
Berlo, “The Formative Years of Native American Art History,” introduction to The
Early Years of Native American Art History, ed. Janet Catherine Berlo (Seattle:
University of Washington Press), 1–21; and Jonaitis, “Franz Boas, John Swanton,
and the New Haida Sculpture.”
86. Hilden and Huhndorf, “Performing ‘Indian,’” 170; Lloyd Kiva New, “Translating
the Past,” in All Roads Are Good, 42.
87. On the treatment of objects as art, see Ruth B. Phillips, “Disrupting Past Para-
digms: The National Museum of the American Indian and the First Peoples Hall
at the Canadian Museum of Civilization,” Public Historian 28, no. 2 (2006): 75–80;

104 mcmullen
 Jacknis, “A New Thing?” For the commodification of Native objects, see Hilden,
“Race for Sale”; Hilden and Huhndorf, “Performing ‘Indian’”; and Dubin, Native
America Collected.
88. mai histories describe Heye’s overemphasis — as a collector rather than a scien-
tist — on whole ceramic vessels and other complete items and his specific disregard
for potsherds; see Lothrop, “George Gustav Heye, 1874–1956.” I suspect that, lack-
ing the knowledge or imagination to mentally reconstruct them into complete
objects, Heye did not find potsherds and other fragmentary objects “readable.”
89. Pearce summarizes Michael Thompson’s “rubbish theory,” which divides mate-
rial culture into rubbish (objects of no value), transients (commodities and items
that move within capitalist systems and whose value declines over time), and “du-
rables” (things whose value appreciates and is often spiritual, scientific, or artis-
tic); see Pearce, Museums, Objects, and Collections, 34. Heye seemed uninterested
in transients in this system, but he obviously valued both durables and rubbish
in his attempts to understand Native lifeways. This presentation of Thompson’s
theory does not account for transient objects in collectors’ and museums’ hands
that move into the durable category as they age and become appreciated as art or
artifacts; see Ann McMullen, “See America First: Tradition, Innovation, and In-
dian Country Arts,” in Indigenous Motivations: Recent Acquisitions from the Na-
tional Museum of the American Indian (Washington dc: National Museum of the
American Indian, 2006), 19–25.

Reinventing George Heye 105

4
Ethnographic Elaborations, Indigenous
Contestations, and the Cultural
Politics of Imagining Community
A View from the District Six Museum in South Africa
ciraj rassool

On April 3, 2001, in a landmark moment in the history of cultural dis-

play in South Africa, the bushman diorama, exhibited in the South Afri-
can Museum (sam) since 1960, was shut down. Amid strong feelings ex-
pressed by some staff members that the act of closure smacked of political
correctness and that it appeared to be a knee-jerk reaction, the diorama
was boarded up and “archived,” symbolizing the museum’s commitment
to change.1 A few days before, on March 30, 2001, delegates of the Khoisan
communities of South Africa had gathered together at Oudtshoorn for
the first time in their memory to deliberate over various issues at a con-
sultative conference, titled “Khoisan Diversity in National Unity.” At this
conference, the tribes, their leaders, researchers, and academics assem-
bled to discuss “how the Khoisan people and their leaders” would be “ac-
commodated constitutionally.”2 But the central purpose of the conference
was to take discussions forward, regarding “the next step in the National
Khoisan Legacy Project, which strove to develop heritage resources sig-
nificant to the Khoisan people.”3 On June 7, 2001, the Sixty-fifth Annual
Conference of the South African Museums Association (sama) was held
in Port Elizabeth around the general theme of museum ethics. At this
meeting, representatives of three of the key museums in South Africa that
hold collections of human remains, especially of the Khoisan, declared
the interest and willingness of their institutions to pursue a discussion
about repatriation.4
These processes and events reflect the tensions and contestations that
106
are emerging over the place of Khoisan history and culture and the ap-
propriate terms and frameworks of their representation, in the domain of
heritage and public culture after apartheid. These struggles have occurred
amid centralized processes of transforming old national museums and
museum collections as well as attempts by the state to spearhead official
heritage projects, in the form of the Legacy Project program, geared to-
ward the transformation of heritage. At certain times these moves repre-
sented attempts to transcend older frameworks of ethnography and racial
science; at other times they represented a quest to recover an Indigenous
cultural history that had been distorted and obscured by colonialism and
apartheid. Sometimes this has meant the reinvention of ethnicity in the
name of Indigenousness. Often, as we shall see, these seemingly contradic-
tory moves, of challenging ethnography and of appealing to ethnic iden-
tity, have occurred simultaneously. It is necessary for us to understand
when and under what conditions ethnic frameworks are reproduced and
when they are (potentially) transcended.
These contradictions are reflective of broader challenges and contests
unfolding in the sphere of heritage in the public domain more generally.
Contrary to what some historians in South Africa might think,5 almost
every sphere of heritage production has seen complexity, controversy,
and contestation in relation to dominant discursive frames that have been
crystallizing. Among the elements of this dominant discourse has been
the framing device of the “rainbow nation,” where the concept of culture
is largely in primordial terms. These dominant discursive forms have been
contested. In significant cases, particularly in community museums and
local cultural projects, certain initiatives had begun to push beyond these
dominant narrations and to contest the constitutive elements of the na-
tion, the cultural politics of tourism, as well as the signage systems and
forms of memorialization that are attached to urban and rural landscapes.
It is here that the concept of community has been approached outside of
ethnic discourses of diversity.6
The discourse of many cultures, through which culture and heritage
are more easily commoditized as spectacle, has continued to unleash it-
self upon the South African landscape. New cultural villages are position-
ing themselves for tourism virtually every day.7 While this has been the
main character of cultural tourism, cultural festivals and cultural cam-

Ethnographic Elaborations 107

paigns run by newspapers have also been characterized by the search for
authentic culture. Elsewhere, the leading documentary photographer of
the social conditions of apartheid and resistance, Peter Magubane, is now
free from having to document the struggle and is thus able to focus on
neglected heritage, continuing to promote his recently published book of
photographs, Vanishing Cultures, which is little more than a collection of
studies on tribes that are now addressed as authentic cultures.8
As cultural tourism continues to present itself as the passport to tour-
ism’s democratization, South Africa continues to be depicted as a world
in one country, with visitors being invited to gaze on the ancient rituals
of old Africa and to explore a culture as fascinating as it is diverse. In a
dazzling array of cultural villages, culture and history remain frozen in a
timeless zone as a kaleidoscope of frozen ethnic stereotypes that corre-
spond with the predominant tourist images of Africa. Each cultural vil-
lage reproduces a specific ethnic stereotype, whose roots lie in colonial
administration and in nineteenth- and early twentieth-century imperial
exhibitions. Notions of authenticity and being close to the real Africa are
generated by the correspondence between nineteenth-century images of
pulsating tribes and the performance of ethnographic spectacle.9 The case
of the Makuleke of Limpopo Province, where a tourism development proj-
ect has been created as a means to give effect to a successful land claim,
reflects the possibilities of creating cultural villages without reproducing
and indeed memorializing static notions of culture and ethnicity. Reflect-
ing an awareness of the dangers of stereotyping and conforming to out-
sider views of Africa, the Makuleke proposals called for the creation of
an interpretive center, thus creating the possibility of challenging ethnic
fixing and culture depicted as timeless essence.10
In our research, we have referred to the dominant framework for the
depiction of South African cultural heritage as often perpetuating fro-
zen ethnic stereotypes, much of which was constructed in the colonial
gaze. Elsewhere we have also referred to the rainbow narrative and to the
discourse on many cultures. It is possible to utilize a similar analytical
frame to understand the contradictory moves that occurred from March
through June of 2001 to place the issue of Khoisan heritage and culture
on the public history agenda in South Africa. These cases imply a contest
unfolding over the legacy of ethnography in postapartheid South Africa,

108 rassool
which extends these constructs. Ethnography is seen here as a knowledge
system that seeks to classify and order society on the basis of supposed
racial or ethnic grounds.

In the history of the museum, the life of ethnography saw the presumed
application of science to the collection and display of objects and artifacts
in pursuit of the study and depiction of racial and cultural difference. The
early category that was used in South African museums and universities
was, of course, ethnology, which was used to refer both to the scientific
study of native races and to the sociology of primitive societies.11 Later,
under the rubric of the supposedly more acceptable category of ethnogra-
phy, the focus shifted from an interest in bodies to an interest in cultural
difference, often making use of visual representations of the racialized
native body, placed in invented cultural scenes. South African museums
were indeed characterized by the familiar colonial classificatory division
between ethnography and cultural history, which separated static depic-
tions of supposed primitive societies from depictions of the stages of de-
velopment of supposedly civilized societies. Under apartheid this division
was given added force through the operation of governmental funding
structures, with cultural history deemed to be a white own affair.12 The
creation of Iziko Museums of Cape Town from the old national collec-
tions and museums represents more than just a new institutionalized cen-
tralization of resources. In Iziko, especially with the creation of the new
Social History Collections division, the institutional circumstances have
arguably been created for the possibility of putting to rest the classifica-
tory division between cultural history and ethnography.13
But the discourse of ethnography has gone on to have life outside the
museum as well. Cultural villages represent a new genre of living museum,
in which an overnight hotel-type experience is arranged in the guise of
ethnic authenticity. Sometimes the cultural encounter in such invented
settings takes on qualities of anthropology lessons. Carolyn Hamilton
has drawn attention to the immersion of visitors inside a tourist anthro-
pology of Zulu identity at Shakaland in KwaZulu-Natal and to the Zulu
cultural lessons that are given inside the Great Hut by a cultural advisor,
who explains the Zulu way of doing things.14 But more than being a rep-
lication of the museum, or an approximation of the circumstances of an

Ethnographic Elaborations 109

anthropological field encounter or anthropology classroom, ethnographic
discourse has also found expression in the cultural politics of Indigenous
identity assertions, as evidenced in the proceedings and discussions of
the National Khoisan Consultative Conference at Oudtshoorn.
Ethnography has also continued to have life in successful land claims
on national park land, which were lodged in the mid-1990s under the
terms of the Restitution of Land Rights Act Twenty-two of 1994. The suc-
cessful land claim launched in 1995 by the Southern Kalahari San (many
of whom were performing as bushmen in the setting of a private game
park, Kagga Kamma, at the time of the claim) resulted in the South Af-
rican government handing over 50,000 hectares of land from the former
Kalahari Gemsbok National Park. This claim was based indirectly on the
ethnological and anthropometric research that was conducted in 1936 by
a team of University of the Witwatersrand anthropologists and linguists
in preparation for the display of bushmen at the Empire Exhibition. This
claim emphasized continuities with an Aboriginal past, closeness to na-
ture, and the racialized identity of a people who were “frozen in artificial
time”; it was first performed in Johannesburg in 1936 and later transferred
to Kagga Kamma.15 Thus, just as the demise of apartheid has created enor-
mous possibilities for ethnographic discourses to be overcome, this pe-
riod has paradoxically also seen new ethnographic elaborations on older
systems of thought and classification.
When news broke that the closure of the Khoisan diorama at the sam
was imminent, some unhappiness was expressed in certain staff quar-
ters. Retired taxidermist Reinhold Rau, who was still in the employ of
the museum, described the closure as ridiculous. Completely missing the
point, he stated that he himself had “made a cast of a European [which
was] on display in this same natural history museum.” He went on to de-
scribe the argument that you could not have people in the same museum
as animals as being “rubbish.”16 Later, the sam restaurant staff bemoaned
the drop in museum attendance, which they attributed to the closure of
the diorama, which was once described as the most popular museum ex-
hibit in South Africa.17 Without any investigation or analysis and in the
service of a rather naive sense of journalistic balance, Cape Times jour-
nalist Melanie Gosling attempted to canvass Khoisan opinion. From the
conference in Oudtshoorn, whose proceedings had just been finalized, a

110 rassool
view was expressed that supported the diorama’s closure, because it “did
not depict indigenous people as human”; while in Windhoek, where a
meeting of the San Cultural Heritage Committee had just taken place,
the closure of the diorama was supposedly condemned, based on the ar-
gument that it was important that “their past be preserved.”18 This latter
view was strongly reminiscent of David Kruiper, who then lived in Kagga
Kamma and who paid homage in 1995 to the central cast of the bushman
diorama, perceived to be the image of the stamvader, (tribal patriarch)
Ou Makai.19
The intention to close the diorama was first made known on a pub-
lic television news broadcast in October 2000 by Jack Lohman, who was
then newly appointed as director of Iziko. Unbeknownst to his senior
colleagues, who were caught a little unaware, Lohman, as someone with
a good sense of the media sound bite, went on television to proclaim on
behalf of the museum that the diorama had seen its final season and that
the museum was closing its shutters on this exhibit.20 Ben Ngubane — the
then Minister of Arts, Culture, Science, and Technology — personally en-
tered the fray soon after, expressing support for what he thought was the
movement of the controversial displays. After Ngubane had called on
Iziko to urgently investigate this issue, Fidel Hadebe, Ngubane’s spokes-
person, said, “the ideal situation is that such displays should be put where
they belong, in the cultural history museum, and not among animals.”21
In this limited view, concern was not expressed about the objects and ar-
tifacts that comprised the diorama, especially about the casts and their
history, their acquisition, and their lives within the museum’s collections
and exhibitions.
Senior staff members in the sam had recognized for years the contro-
versial nature of the diorama, through research on the diorama’s intellec-
tual history as well as research on its audiences.22 Over the years, some at-
tempt at contextualization was created — initially with a limited display on
the making of the casts, including information about the people who were
cast — amid academic debates on the creation of the category of bushman.
For a time, the late-eighteenth-century artwork by Samuel Daniell depict-
ing a San camp, on which the design of the diorama had been based, was
exhibited alongside the diorama.23 Later, in the wake of the controversial
but powerful exhibition Miscast: Negotiating Khoisan History and Ma-

Ethnographic Elaborations 111

terial Culture, curator and artist Pippa Skotnes created an accompany-
ing display that attempted to depict San intellectual traditions, much like
some of the intentions of Miscast. This was achieved, however, through
the depiction of the relationship between /Xam subjects and those early
anthropologists Wilhelm Bleek and Lucy Lloyd — who studied them in
the mid-nineteenth century — as an instance of remarkable cooperation
and mutual respect. In this framework, the Bleek and Lloyd archive was
celebrated as “a 13,000-page record of a series of relationships between
two European scholars and a group of /Xam and !Kung individuals whose
common aim was to preserve the memories of culture and traditions
which were fatally threatened.”24
The contextual effects of these parallel exhibitions were, however, quite
limited. Despite their awareness of the diorama’s shortcomings, senior
staff members in the sam seemed to be largely paralyzed at any prospect
of altering Margaret Shaw’s legacy. Amid this simultaneous discomfort
and paralysis, the diorama, left to itself, continued to perform the func-
tion of being the place where tour groups and school students came to
view images of primitiveness and ecological soundness. For students in
museum studies, the diorama came to be a kind of meta-ethnography
exhibit, as an exhibition displaying a particular time, thus giving effect
to Davison’s idea that the casts were, “authentic artefacts of scientific at-
titudes and museum practice in the early twentieth century.”25
Amid internal confusion in Iziko among staff members who were sud-
denly caught in the maelstrom of transformation, and in response to the
criticism from a tourist industry that felt deprived of one of its prime
destinations, the sam felt compelled to issue a statement explaining the
diorama’s closure. The statement explained that, under the new banner
of Iziko, the sam and the South African Cultural History Museum were
once again part of a single organization. An institutional cleavage between
them had been created under apartheid in the 1960s, as a means of sepa-
rating colonial history from Khoisan and other anthropology collections,
which remained with natural history in the sam. The sam viewed the di-
orama as part of an exhibition system, which did not “demonstrate that
anthropology includes all humankind.” The diorama’s closure represented
a decision to “archive” the exhibit while its future was reviewed. The state-
ment also hinted at future directions and modes of work: “Instead of

112 rassool
showing only ‘other cultures’, new exhibitions will focus on themes that
embrace all people.” According to the statement, the diorama’s closure
represented the museum’s commitment to change. It sought to encour-
age debate within the museum; and it invited the public, and especially
“people of Khoisan descent,” to participate in these debates.26 At the sam
a notice on the boarded-up diorama expressed a similar desire. The di-
orama, the notice said, “will be left in place while a process of consulta-
tion with affected communities takes place. We are committed to working
in partnership with Khoisan people in developing new exhibitions [em-
phasis mine].” But how was this partnership and process of consultation
with the Khoisan to be accomplished?
The answer to this question is perhaps to be found in the conference
rituals and cultural constructions that unfolded at the Oudtshoorn con-
ference. This gathering was attended by more than five hundred people,
most of whom were Khoisan delegates from thirty-six communities and
organizations as well as from different regions. “Never before had indi-
viduals and leaders from nearly all Khoisan communities and organiza-
tions in South Africa come together in huge numbers to deliberate on
their future.” The conference was opened by deputy president Zuma, who
started by referring to the “special role” of Khoisan people in the history
of the struggle against colonialism. He made special mention of Autshu-
mato, who was Robben Island’s first political prisoner and “the only man
to escape from the island and survive.” The conference is said to have re-
flected “the enduring strength of the Khoisan people,” who “waged the
first wars of resistance against the colonial onslaught of the seventeenth
century.” Among the themes that were discussed at the conference were
religious values, culture and identity, education and the representation
of Khoisan in the media, land rights, Khoisan ngos (non-governmental
organizations) and economic empowerment, intellectual property, Indig-
enous knowledge systems, and the role of Khoisan women.27
A focus on the possibilities of the National Khoisan Legacy Project as
well as on the question of Khoisan constitutional accommodation en-
abled “the aspirations of Khoisan unity and for a national South African
identity” to be “elevated.”28 The conference was made possible by what
Henry Bredekamp has called, “an upsurge in Khoisan revivalism.” Great
pride was expressed in being Khoisan, with Khoisan identity and culture

Ethnographic Elaborations 113

enthusiastically embraced. Delegates also applauded traditional Khoisan
dancing, singing, and speech in Khoisan languages, while many wore
clothing with Indigenous motifs, such as a leopard motif. In addition,
the conference “provided an opportunity for Khoisan to network and to
foster a common vision and approach to the future.”29 It was reported in
the press that outside the conference center, “people of the Inqua, !Xu,
Griekwa, Nama, Hessequa and other Khoisan tribes embraced each other
warmly,” while inside the conference, Inqua choirs and dance groups per-
formed as San children “portrayed traditional tribal stories through dance
routines.”30
The state’s program of Legacy Projects was explained as “a national ini-
tiative for nation-building designed to fill in gaps in South Africa’s heri-
tage resources created by colonialism and apartheid policies in the past.”
It was noted that the ideal Khoisan Legacy Project needed to be inspi-
rational to the Khoisan and had to build an understanding of Khoisan
heritage; a number of suggestions to accomplish these goals were made,
including “a statue, memorial or monument to the Khoisan” and a “na-
tional institute and museum for Khoisan heritage studies.” It had been
decided that, in order for the largest number of people and communities
to benefit, the Khoisan Legacy Project would be structured around a Na-
tional Khoisan Heritage Route, which would incorporate oral history and
intangible heritage. It would also include buildings and other structures
and sites such as natural features of the landscape, rock art, graves, and
memorials. Attention had to be given to “the past and/or present spiritual
and/or social value of the site for Khoisan communities,” as well as to the
aesthetic and historical values of the site. “All Khoisan interest groups”
were intended to “participate in the identification and justification of sites
for development”; and it was stressed that all Khoisan communities were
to be encouraged to “establish their own ‘house of memory,’ where oral
histories, written records and heritage objects could be collected to form
a core legacy collection unique to that community.”31
Though ethnography had hitherto considered and framed Khoisan her-
itage, when viewed in these ways, the potential exists for the framework of
ethnography to be transcended. Amid a guiding principle in Oudtshoorn
of recovering Indigenous heritage, of simultaneously “advancing unity
amongst the Khoisan and advancing a South African national identity,”

114 rassool
and of rearticulating and reconstituting “the realms of identity and cul-
ture,” it is significant that the closure of the diorama was supported with
the argument that it did not depict Indigenous people as being human.32
It is also significant that the idea of a National Khoisan Heritage Route as
a “set of tourist attractions” was felt to be in need of more careful evalu-
ation.33 More generally, in being reclaimed, the category “Khoisan,” de-
spite its origins as a racial concept in anthropology, has the potential to
enable more specific ethnic claims to be sidestepped while also enabling
an Indigenous identity to be refashioned.
Despite these possibilities, there were other characteristics to the con-
sultative conference that reflected a rebirth and recoding of ethnography
and colonial identities rather than their transcendence. This was evident
nowhere more than in the deliberations around constitutional accommo-
dation. Making use of United Nations discourses on Indigenousness, it
was claimed that the Khoisan could rightly aspire to a special status “be-
cause of the fact that they were Aboriginal and/or first indigenous of the
country.” Groups such as the Griqua, for example, had “an unbroken basis
of leadership which stretched over centuries.” Khoisan culture and reli-
gion were claimed to be distinctive; and it was also asserted that Khoisan
people were unrepresented in various public offices and structures such
as the Office of the Public Protector, the Human Rights Commission,
the Commission for Gender Equality, the Youth Commission, the In-
dependent Broadcasting Corporation, and even the Independent Elec-
toral Commission. National recognition needed to be obtained through
a proposed National Council of Indigenous People (ncip), which would
consist of the Chief-leaders of all the first Indigenous groups. As the real
engine, the executive of the ncop would liaise with various parliamen-
tary standing committees, as well as the Council of Traditional Leaders.
A proposed model for constitutional accommodation was drafted by the
National Griqua Forum. In this model the Council of Indigenous Peoples,
with representation by the Griqua, Nama, Korana, San, and Cape Khoi,
would be the basis of accessing the National Assembly and the ncip. Fur-
thermore, out of a link with the entirely separate Bantu-speaking Coun-
cil of Traditional Leaders, a joint standing committee on Indigenous and
traditional affairs would be created.34
Thus, alongside the potential for a post-ethnic framework for Khoisan

Ethnographic Elaborations 115

identity and heritage, a belated pitch for an accelerated route to ethnic
formation in the name of Indigenous identity was being made after apart-
heid. Khoisanness was no longer Indigenousness merely as Aboriginality
in South Africa. Now what was being claimed was Khoisan Indigenous-
ness as ethnicity. What was being called for was a preferential classifica-
tory category, with Indigenous identity as the basis of access to state re-
sources. This ethnic framework was also ethnographic, based on claims
of cultural specialness and distinctiveness (eiesoortigheid). Identity and
constitutional representation were further subdivided into discrete sub-
ethnicities, each of which would have an equal number of representa-
tives. And all over this proposed system of classification and representa-
tion were chiefs and stamhoofde, or “tribal heads,” and members of royal
houses who would be remunerated as cabinet ministers and as members
of Parliament, “since they are leaders of the first Indigenous people and
deserve to be treated as such.”35
This Khoisan political elite would occupy seats in a reinvented, belated
colonial system of native affairs with its origins in the system of indirect
rule, a system from which the Khoisan in South Africa had largely been
excluded. Just as the potential for ethnography to be transcended had been
elaborated upon, in almost the same breath it was being reproduced on
nearly the same terms as colonialism. Also being highlighted was the ever-
present shadow of colonial construction in assertions of Indigenousness.
But what was being proposed was a shift from physical anthropology to
native affairs, from race to ethnicity.
So, these are the contradictory claims on identity and heritage — simul-
taneously challenging and reproducing, questioning and asserting eth-
nography — that the sam would face in its efforts to consult with Khoisan
people over the future of its diorama and ethnographic collections. While
consultations and partnerships with emerging elite Khoisan constitutional
and cultural forums might hold the possibility of setting the sam on a new
path of responsiveness to Indigenous audiences, the museum could well
find itself immersed in Indigenous definitions and ethnographic elabora-
tions that perpetuate the very intellectual frameworks and cultural histo-
ries they wish to overcome.

Even so, the focal point of the diorama as the indicator of museum trans-
formation seemed to be missing the point. For while the diorama has oc-

116 rassool
cupied a symbolic space as the visual expression of colonial taxonomy,
ethnography, and racial science in South African museums, it is but the
tip of the ethnographic iceberg. In considering the history and ethno-
graphic dilemmas of the sam — especially the legacy of Louis Peringuey,
an early director of the museum, and his assistant, James Drury, the mu-
seum modeler — our discussions have tended to overemphasize the leg-
acy of cast making. It can be argued that in closing the diorama, the sam
had perhaps diverted attention away from a more nefarious legacy. Our
research shows that far more than casts, Peringuey’s legacy is that of the
collecting of skeletons. Human remains lie at the center of the emergence
of museums in South Africa as institutions of order, classification, and
knowledge at the turn of the twentieth century. Human remains provided
the basis of the founding of the McGregor Museum in Kimberley and was
central to the development of the sam in the age of anthropology.36
Most people might assume that these human remains were excavated
by professional archaeologists and that they are fossilized remains of long-
dead people, collected, perhaps, as part of research on prehistory, evolu-
tion, and human origins. What has been largely left unexamined in the
history of anthropology, archaeology, and museums is the way that many
of these remains were acquired, particularly around the turn of the cen-
tury.37 Our research reveals a little of the evidence of an incipient trade
in human remains at this time, between grave robbers and South African
museums as well as museums in Europe. It reveals, moreover, that there
was intense rivalry and competition among museums about any future
possession of the skeletons of still-living persons, as well as the digging
up of very recently buried bodies.
Our study examines the ethics of these exhumations and, in the light
of this, questions the appropriate steps for placing the issue of human re-
mains in museums on the agenda of both the academy and museums. At
the heart of the institutional history of the museum in South Africa in
the twentieth century was a competitive and insatiable trade in human
remains, to a significant extent of the newly dead, and in some cases, of
the still living. This trade involved very close connections by men and
women of science in South African museums and beyond with gross acts
of plunder and the defilement of human bodies.38 The southern Kalahari
and the Northern Cape more generally were part of an enormous field

Ethnographic Elaborations 117

site, stretching from southern Namibia across to then Bechuanaland, for
the acquisition of human remains that were central to racial research in
South Africa and Europe. The failure of the academy and museums to
examine these political questions squarely derived from a perpetuation
of the idea that the bones and skulls of Khoisan people, in the twentieth
century, were natural history fossils, referred to as relics at the beginning
of the twentieth century.
In stating the case for repatriation and reburial, we ask what interest
the state has in the remains of recently dead people being kept in its in-
stitutions. Repatriation could take a number of forms, and the National
Heritage Resources Act proposed one method. This would require a claim
being made by a “community or body with a bona fide interest” for such
a “heritage resource” held in a publicly funded institution as apart of the
“national estate.”39 The onus thus lies on such communities or bodies
to make claims on skeletons from museums. Such a method, we argue,
would create a piecemeal process and is not based on any understanding
on how human remains were acquired in the first place.40 This framework
also implicitly encourages ethnic claims on bones as the basis of the ex-
pression of a bona fide interest. Such an ethnic framework would ensure
that the bones be returned in precisely the same framework in which they
were first collected.
The method of repatriation and reburial for which we argue is a mass
reburial in a public ceremony and the construction of a national memo-
rial site. Human remains were collected from the most decimated sec-
tions of the Indigenous population. Apart from the Khoisan, there was no
harvesting of the human remains of the Indigenous on the scale of that
which took place in the United States or Australia. White colonizers were
probably far too scared of Bantu speakers to attempt to rob their graves
en masse. To represent the interests of the majority and to act on behalf
of the Indigenous, the state should assert their prior rights against any
museum collection, provenanced or unprovenanced, and act decisively
to ensure repatriation.
When Mike Raath, in his address to the 2001 sama Conference, and
Francis Thackeray, in personal communication, expressed the desire of
their institutions to engage in a process of repatriation, they drew on the
research and arguments contained in Skeletons in the Cupboard. In con-

118 rassool
ducting fresh audits of the skeletal collections inside their museums, they
discovered that, indeed, just like the sam and the McGregor Museum, a
substantial percentage of their bones were ill begotten and indeed fell into
the category that Skeletons in the Cupboard had described. There was no
question in their minds that consultation needed to occur. The sam, on
the other hand, had understood that the curatorship of these sensitive
collections needed to change, and proposals were being formulated for
special keeping places with restricted access for the “respectful treatment”
of human remains. Continued retention on this basis, however, did not
adequately recognize the extent to which ethnographic museums were in-
stitutions of atrocity. Museum collecting involved more than the epistemic
violence of classification, ordering, and the hierarchical systems of racial
science. It involved literal violence and violation of the body.
In arguing for an approach to repatriation, community engagement,
and a public that refuses to be contained in ethnic frameworks, we have
implicitly tried to find a way of transcending ethnographic discourse,
both in and outside the museum. This argument recognizes that a cul-
ture war has been unfolding over the legacy of ethnography: as a museum
discipline, as a practice of collecting and archiving, and as a discourse of
classification in identity assertions and in heritage constructions more
generally. In South Africa, where the struggle against race opened the pos-
sibility that ethnography itself could be questioned, we have seen ethnog-
raphy come into its own with renewed vigor. Nevertheless, even within the
Khoisan Legacy Project, the potential is being explored of approaches to
culture and heritage that draw on the resources of language and memory
for the public inscription of landscapes with Indigenous histories and cul-
tural emblems and for the mapping of personal and community histories.
Dealing with the diorama should surely be part of a broader project to
address the history of ethnography at the sam. Repatriation of museum
skeletons through public reburial, rather than claims of ethnicity, would
ensure that the legacy of ethnography might not only be understood but
overcome. The skeletons of ethnography could still be put to rest.

Finally, it remains for me to provide some ideas on how the experience of

the District Six Museum in Cape Town enables us to approach the ques-
tion of community and museum publics beyond frames of ethnography

Ethnographic Elaborations 119

and atonement.41 From a variety of perspectives, the category of commu-
nity museum is one that has been used to describe the District Six Mu-
seum. It is also a concept that is deployed deliberately by the museum
to define the cultural politics of its memory work. The museum’s use of
“community” is not one that is naive, but one that is conscious and stra-
tegic. The museum insists on utilizing this concept as an organizational
device in asserting a particular politics of governance and institutional
orientation, in expressing a particular commitment to social mobiliza-
tion, and in constructing and defending independent spaces of articula-
tion and contestation in the public domain. This strategic position ema-
nates from a complex museum institution that has created a hybrid space
of cultural and intellectual production of contests and transactions among
activist intellectuals, purveyors of academic knowledge, museum profes-
sionals, and performers of authentic voice. These features of the District
Six Museum as a space of knowledge draw on a genealogy of forums of
intellectual, cultural, and political expression in District Six, which came
into existence during the 1930s, as well as on the politics of community
organizing from the 1980s.
The idea of a community museum tends to conjure notions of authen-
ticity and representativeness in a local institution that supposedly works
with an audience that is considered to be a bounded community. The
interests and worldview of the community museum are supposedly cir-
cumscribed by locality. With a history of racialized group areas in South
Africa, this concept of community, defined by seemingly natural ethnic
markers, is an ever-present danger. In a typological system of museums,
community museums are sometimes understood as almost one of the
simplest units of museum structures when considered along a continuum
of museums of different rank, a hierarchy in which national museums
are seen as more complex.42 In this framework, the notions of commu-
nity and community museum invite a paternalistic sentiment and ideas
of innocence and naïveté, as the community now has access to modes of
cultural and historical expression from which it had previously been ex-
cluded. The community museum also raises the idea of a museum as a fo-
cus of educational and cultural services. Here the museum seeks to reach
certain audiences and to deliver “benefits to specific, geographically de-
fined communities” through strategies of inclusion, within a framework

120 rassool
of atonement and service.43 The museum here is understood as being dis-
tinct from such communities with whom it may wish to extend formal re-
lations of service and consultation and with whom it may even introduce
forms of partnership, joint management, and relations of reciprocity.
The concept of the community museum has posed a range of difficul-
ties in the District Six Museum and has been the focus of much debate.
In the first place, the concept of community has been the subject of much
suspicion because of its uses under apartheid, tending to be used in racial-
ized, bounded ways to refer to racial and ethnic units of the population.
Community was defined in racial and ethnic ways through the workings
of the state and its apparatuses. Even when understood in geopolitical
terms to refer to localities and neighborhoods where people lived, it was
racialized because of the operation of racial legislation. One of the ironies
of the postapartheid period is that ethnic forms of community identity
and identification have had new life as primordial and static cultures, re-
produced either for tourism or in search of state benefits through land
claims.44
The District Six Museum defined itself as a community museum be-
cause it sees its work as a locus of social organizing and mobilization. This
definition also signaled a desire to create a participatory and enabling
framework of interpretation and empowerment and to generate the mu-
seum project as an ongoing process. A community museum wishing to
influence the identity-making processes of re-creating and redefining a
community from the ruins of apartheid’s destruction required a strong
museum infrastructure and more decisive means of balancing social ac-
tivism with professional museum skills. The work of balancing these pro-
ductive tensions strategically and finding the appropriate means of deter-
mining priorities under rapidly shifting cultural and political conditions
remains one of the most important challenges of the District Six Museum’s
creative development.
Finally, the community museum as a project can only have longevity
and sustainability through the generation of internal institutional capac-
ity and expertise and through enhancing internal processes of debate and
argumentation. While the museum’s existence parallels the prosecution
and ongoing settlement of the land claim by a legally defined claimant
community, the notions of “community-ness” with which it works are not

Ethnographic Elaborations 121

determined by descent, mere historic claims, or spatial presence. Instead,
the museum’s idea of community is strategic and expresses a desire for
particular forms of social reconstruction. Community itself is an imag-
ined identity of commonality and interest. Its parameters are the very
essence of contestation. Through its exhibitions, programs, and forums,
and in its internal processes of negotiation and brokerage, the District Six
Museum is constantly involved in redefining and reframing its notions of
community. It continues to be a site where postapartheid identities are be-
ing imagined and self-fashioned and not simply being imbibed passively
from those that have been produced by colonialism and apartheid.

Notes
1. Melanie Gosling, “Controversial Khoisan Exhibition to Close,” Cape Times, April
2, 2001; “Museum defends closure of ‘bushmen’ exhibition,” Dispatch Online, April
6, 2001, http://www.dispatch.co.za/2001/04/06/southafrica/MUSEUM.HTM. For
a discussion of these events see Leslie Witz, “Transforming Museums on Post-
apartheid Tourist Routes,” in Museum Frictions: Global Transformations/ Public
Cultures, ed. Ivan Karp and others (Durham nc: Duke University Press, 2006),
107–34.
2. Bureaugard Tromp, “Zuma Praises Khoisan ‘Wars of Resistance,’” Independent
Online, March 30, 2001, http://www.iol.co.za/index.php?setid=1&clickid=124&a
rtid=ct200103300_9401489K000126 (accessed October 8, 2008).
3. Institute for Historical Research, National Khoisan Consultative Conference, Oudt-
shoorn: March 29 to April 1, 2001, Conference Booklet, (Cape Town: Institute for
Historical Research, University of the Western Cape, 2001).
4. Mike Raath (Johannesburg, South Africa: University of the Witwatersrand), “Hu-
man Material in Collections: Airing the Skeletons in the Closet,” and Graham
Avery (Iziko Museums of Cape Town), “Dealing with Sensitive Issues and Ma-
terial: South African Museum’s Experience and Ideas,” papers presented to the
65th Conference and Annual General Meeting of the South African Museums
Association (sama), June 5–7, 2001; a third position was outlined for me in per-
sonal communication by Francis Thackeray of the Transvaal Museum, Northern
Flagship Institution. The theme of the sama conference was “A Question of Mu-
seum Ethics: Hayi bo! Shu! Eina! Ouch!”
5. See for example the posting by Jane Carruthers, in which she attempted to point
out the dangers posed for history, inter alia by heritage — a zone that for her was
almost inherently exaggeration, myth making, omission, and error and that she
suggested should not be “the domain of historians.” Jane Carruthers, “Heritage
and History,” Africa Forum #2, H-Africa, October 20, 1998, http://h-net.msu.edu/

122 rassool
 cgi-bin/logbrowse.pl?trx=vx&list=h-africa&month=9810&week=c&msg=sv82D
ZpkATFzGc7zqbkFKA&user=&pw.
6. For a discussion of these contests and the ways in which heritage projects and
sites such as the District Six Museum, Western Cape Action Tours, and the
Makuleke community in the Limpopo Province reflect the potential to challenge
dominant heritage discourses, see Ciraj Rassool, “The Rise of Heritage and the
Reconstitution of History in South Africa,” Kronos, no. 26 (2000): 1–22.
7. According to a Sunday Times report, one of the more recent sites to emerge is the
Shangana Cultural Village, which opened in Hazyview in Mpumalanga alongside
the Kruger National Park in March 1999. Largely the result of efforts of former
advertising executives Robert More and James Delaney, who had set out “to cre-
ate authentic Shangaan villages,” the village was built “with the help of the local
community” and with wood sourced from alien tree clearing in the Sabie Val-
ley. See Sunday Times (London), August 22, 1999. Soon after, the Cape Metropoli-
tan Council announced its decision to develop an “African Theme Park” on the
outskirts of the city. The park would contain Xhosa, Zulu, and Ndebele villages as
well as a restaurant, museum, auditorium, curio shop, and parking area; Cape
Times, August 23, 1999.
8. Peter Magubane, Vanishing Cultures in South Africa: Changing Customs in a
Changing World (Cape Town: Struik, 1998). In a remarkable and ironic twist, a
number of scholars such as Sandra Klopper, Andrew Spiegel, Chris van Vuuren,
and Debora James, who had been called in at a late stage of the book’s production
as specialists to rescue the book from simplistic tribalism, found themselves listed
as consultants on the book’s contents page. This served to give authority to the
book’s tribal focus, which tourists in search of African tribes demand and pub-
lishers of coffee table tourist books, such as Struik, eagerly provide. This book fur-
ther carries the seal of approval of no less than Nelson Mandela, who wrote a
foreword. Magubane’s quest to corner a tourist market is seemingly unquench-
able. His second book, African Renaissance, reproduces the tribal categories of
the former book, as if this is the only means of scripting Indigenousness.
9. For an extended discussion of these issues, see Leslie Witz, Ciraj Rassool, and
Gary Minkley, “Repackaging the Past for South African Tourism,” Daedalus 130,
no. 1 (2001), 277–96.
10. Lamson Maluleke (in collaboration with Eddie Koch), “Culture, Heritage and
Tourism: Proposals for a Living Museums Project in the Makuleke Region of the
Kruger National Park, South Africa,” Proceedings of the Constituent Assembly of the
International Council of African Museums-Africom (Lusaka, Zambia: Africom, Oc-
tober 3–9, 1999), 101–5; see also David Bunn and Mark Auslander, “Owning the
Kruger Park,” Arts 1999: The Arts, Culture and Heritage Guide to South Africa,
60–63.
11. Patricia Davison, “Redressing the Past: Integrating Social History Collections at
Iziko,” South African Museums Association Bulletin, 2005, 101–4.

Ethnographic Elaborations 123

12. The 1983 Tricameral Constitution in apartheid South Africa created a racialized
government structure with areas of political, social, and cultural life defined as
“own affairs” and “general affairs.” Own affairs referred to the affairs of a particu-
lar racial group as defined under apartheid.
13. Davison, “Redressing the Past.”
14. Carolyn Hamilton, “Authoring Shaka: Models, Metaphors and Historiography,”
(PhD diss., Johns Hopkins University, 1993), 540–42.
15. For a discussion of the cultural politics of the southern Kalahari land claim and
the genealogy of “bushman” cultural performance, see Ciraj Rassool, “Cultural
Performance and Fictions of Identity: The Case of the Khoisan of the Southern
Kalahari, 1936–1937,” in Voices, Values and Identities Symposium, ed. Yvonne Dladla
(Pretoria, South Africa: South African National Parks, 1998), 73–79; see also Ciraj
Rassool and Patricia Hayes, “Science and the Spectacle: /Khanako’s South Africa,
1936–37” in Deep Histories: Gender and Colonialism in Africa, ed. Wendy Wood-
ward, Patricia Hayes, and Gary Minkley (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2001), 117–62.
16. Melanie Gosling, “Controversial Khoisan Exhibit to Close.” Cape Times, April
2, 2001. It is interesting to note that Gosling reported on this story, whose Khoisan-
related journalism is always accompanied by the description of her as the “envi-
ronmental reporter.”
17. Pippa Skotnes, “The Politics of Bushman Representations,” in Images and Empires:
Visuality in Colonial and Postcolonial Africa, ed. Paul Landau and Deborah Kaspin
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002), 253–54.
18. Melanie Gosling, “Controversial Khoisan Exhibit to Close.”
19. Rob Gordon, Ciraj Rassool, and Leslie Witz, “Fashioning the Bushman in Van
Riebeeck’s Cape Town, 1952 and 1993,” in Miscast: Negotiating the Presence of the
Bushmen, ed. Pippa Skotnes (Cape Town, South Africa: uct Press, 1996), 269.
20. Interview with Jack Lohman, South African Broadcasting Corporation, October
4, 2000, cited in Patricia Davison, “Typecast: Representation of the Bushmen at
the South African Museum,” Public Archaeology 2, no. 1 (2001): 8.
21. Independent Online, “Ngubane wants to move disputed San display,” November 2,
2000, http://www.iol.co.za/general/newsprint.php3?art_id=qw97317942089B223
(accessed October 8, 2008); African National Congress Daily News Briefing, No-
vember 3, 2000, http://70.84.171.10/~etools/newsbrief/2000/news1103.txt.
22. See for example, Patricia Davison, “Human Subjects as Museum Objects: A Proj-
ect to Make Life-Casts of ‘Bushmen’ and ‘Hottentots,’ 1907–1924,” Annals of the
South African Museum 102, no. 5 (1993): 165–83; as well as Patricia Davison, “Re-
thinking the Practice of Ethnography and Cultural History in South African Mu-
seums,” African Studies 49, no. 1 (1990): 149–67.
23. Davison, “Typecast,” 3–20.
24. Skotnes’s veneration of especially Lucy Lloyd is explained in Pippa Skotnes, in-
troduction to Skotnes, Miscast, 22–23; the apogee of this fetishism can be found

124 rassool
 in her book on the making of the archive, Pippa Skotnes, Claim to the Country:
The Archive of Wilhelm Bleek and Lucy Lloyd (Johannesburg: Jacana, 2007). This
approach to the Bleek-Lloyd Archive, couched within a politics of atonement
and paternalism, is also expressed in the work of Janette Deacon. See Janette
Deacon, “A Tale of Two Families: Wilhelm Bleek, Lucy Lloyd and the /Xam San of
Northern Cape,” in Skotnes, Miscast; and especially Janette Deacon and Craig
Foster, My Heart Stands in the Hill (London: Struik Publishers, 2005). This is also
the framework for Iziko South African Museum’s Rock Art Exhibition, “!Qe: The
Power of Rock Art,” which was curated by Deacon and which perpetuated a dom-
inant shamanist and neuropsychological paradigm. For a contrary view on this
intellectual legacy, see the work of Andrew Bank, “Evolution and Racial Theory:
The Hidden Side of Wilhelm Bleek,” South African Historical Journal 43 (2000):
163–78; and especially Andrew Bank, Bushmen in a Victorian World: The Remark-
able Story of the Bleek-Lloyd Collection of Bushman Folklore (Cape Town: Double
Storey, 2006). For a discussion of the different approaches to the Bleek-Lloyd Ar-
chive, see Ciraj Rassool, “Beyond the Cult of ‘Salvation’ and ‘Remarkable Equal-
ity’: A New Paradigm for the Bleek-Lloyd Collection,” Kronos 32 (2006): 244–
51.
25. Patricia Davison, “Human Subjects as Museum Objects,” 182.
26. “Debating the Diorama,” http://www.museums.org.za/sam/resource/arch/bush
debate.htm (accessed July 24, 2002, in author’s possession).
27. Michael Besten and Henry C. Jatti Bredekamp, Report on the National Khoisan
Consultative Conference (nkcc) Held in the Oudtshoorn Civic Centre, March
29–April 1, 2001, April 2001.
28. Besten and Bredekamp, Report on the National Khoisan Consultative Conference,
emphasis mine.
29. Besten and Bredekamp, Report on the National Khoisan Consultative Confer-
ence.
30. Bureaugard Tromp, “Zuma Praises Khoisan ‘Wars of Resistance.’”
31. Janette Deacon, Report on the Workshop to Discuss the dacst Khoisan Legacy
Project, Jointly Organised by sahra and the uwc Institute for Historical Research
at the McGregor Museum, Kimberley, 1–3 December 2000; and Janette Deacon,
“Draft Business Plan for a National Khoisan Legacy Project,” in National Khoisan
Consultative Conference, Oudtshoorn, Conference Booklet.
32. Besten and Bredekamp, Report on the National Khoisan Consultative Confer-
ence.
33. Besten and Bredekamp, Report on the National Khoisan Consultative Confer-
ence.
34. Anthony le Fleur, “Khoisan Grondwetlike Akkommodasie,” in National Khoisan
Consultative Conference, Oudtshoorn, Conference Booklet, 113–21. The quotations
from this work are my own translation.

Ethnographic Elaborations 125

35. Anthony le Fleur, “Khoisan Grondwetlike Akkommodasie,” in National Khoisan
Consultative Conference, Oudtshoorn, Conference Booklet, 113–21.
36. This research is contained in Martin Legassick and Ciraj Rassool, Skeletons in the
Cupboard: South African Museums and the Trade in Human Remains, 1907–1917
(Cape Town: South African Museum, 2000).
37. A partial exception is Alan Morris, “Trophy Skulls, Museums and the San,” in
Skotnes, Miscast, 67–79.
38. For an extensive study of this nefarious trade in Khoisan human remains from
southern Africa for racial research in South Africa and Europe, which included
purchases of bones of the recently dead and people’s skeletons before they had
died, see Legassick and Rassool, Skeletons in the Cupboard, esp. 1–40.
39. National Heritage Resources Act No. Twenty-five of 1999.
40. It is interesting to note that even the deputy president, Jacob Zuma, in his ad-
dress to the National Khoisan Consultative Conference, did not understand the
history of the acquisition of bones by South African museums. He referred to
“Khoisan skeletons found accidentally during construction work” and to those
that had been “excavated in the course of archaeological research.”
41. Here I draw upon my recently published article, Ciraj Rassool, “Community Mu-
seums, Memory Politics and Social Transformation: Histories, Possibilities and
Limits,” in Karp and others, Museum Frictions, 286–321.
42. For an example of this idea of community museums as being local and simple as
opposed to national and more complex, considered in a hierarchy of importance
and stature, see Khwezi ka Mpumlwana and others, “Inclusion and the Power of
Representation: South African Museums and the Cultural Politics of Social Trans-
formation,” in Museums, Society, Inequality, ed. R. Sandell (London: Routledge,
2002), 244–61.
43. Richard Sandell, “Museums and the Combating of Social Inequality,” in Sandell,
Museums, Society, Inequality, 7.
44. Witz, “Transforming Museums”; David Bunn, “The Museum Outdoors: Heritage,
Cattle, and Permeable Borders in the Southwestern Kruger National Park,” in
Karp and others, Museum Frictions, 357–91.

126 rassool
2
Curatorial Practices:
Voices, Values, Languages,
and Traditions
 Museums and Indigenous
Perspectives on Curatorial Practice
jacki thompson rand

If there was a time when museum exhibitions were designed solely to

entertain and engage the imagination, it is no more, at least on the topic
of Indigenous peoples. The following four papers that center on curato-
rial practice illustrate the point. The papers show that exhibitions serve
not just a curator’s creativity and judgment but rather many masters, and
the potential occupants of those roles represent a sea change in museum
culture and practice.
West Side Stories, an exhibit on northwestern Saskatchewan Metis, and
a Huichol exhibit at the National Museum of the American Indian (nmai)
share two common goals: to address colonial historical narratives and to
buttress political and legal claims in the respective lands of the Metis and
the Huichols. Two other papers, “A Dialogic Reaction to the Problematized
Past: The National Museum of the American Indian” and “The Construc-
tion of Native Voice at the National Museum of the American Indian,”
analyze the nmai as a solution to offensive traditional museum practices
concerning Indigenous topics and objects. Each author asks if the nmai
has succeeded as a response to a long history of museum abuses.
Exhibiting both Metis history and Huichol ideas about cosmological
territoriality are performance in a contact zone with a view to similar
ends. Both Metis and Huichol engage in struggles with respective states
that would rather not acknowledge them. Their self-representations are
literal attempts to reverse invisibility, educate others about their ancestral
ties to land, and make a case for their own humanity. Indigenous peoples
throughout the world have carried on this work since the invasion of their
lands. Sharing power with museum professionals to exhibit their stories
with their political agendas in plain view is a new twist. Each exhibit in-

129
volved Indigenous stakeholders whose participation not only provided
Native voice but also exerted content control. The Native collaborators
shared power and control over the exhibits in substance, exhibition tech-
nique, and curatorial decisions. The painstakingly constructed Metis and
Huichol exhibits are examples of the seriousness with which Native peo-
ples exploit the museum as a contact zone. Both exhibits chart the wide
gulf between Native experience and memory and the superficial knowl-
edge of a non-Native audience, which would not matter if not for the fact
that, at least for the Indigenous, much is at stake.
The essays on the nmai speak directly and indirectly to problematized
traditional museum practices and the politics of museums in a national
context. Brady discusses how the nmai leadership has presented the mu-
seum as a response to a troubled history between Native and non-Native
people, a solution to a litany of longstanding Native resentments against
the museum establishment. Collaboration between museum and Native
consultants has been a cornerstone of the “Museum Different,” a slogan
adopted by the nmai leadership to signify a new kind of relationship be-
tween Native people and a national museum. As one might predict, the
inclusion of Native people as collaborators produced a schism among
museum departments over Native control (versus benign Native voice).
Shannon’s analysis shines a bright light on the difference between profes-
sional hubris and resentment against Native interlopers, a long-standing
museum tradition, and a productive understanding of using Native voice
in the development of an exhibit. Shannon’s discussion of the use of raw
transcript text and the necessity of interpretive intervention illustrates a
productive collaborative moment between project equals that transcends
the patronizing spirit of inclusion. The transformation of raw Native text
into exhibit text by a museum professional who possesses a nuanced un-
derstanding of the question and solution suggests respectful and trusting
relationships between the collaborators. This is a goal to which museums
should aspire.
Brady brings us home with a reality check on the nmai as solution. Like
an experienced detective, she doggedly ferrets out the resistant strains of
tradition and naturalized processes that have evaded the nmai’s “Museum
Different” solution and are now structurally embedded in it. The nmai,
sitting on the National Mall in sight of the Capitol, unresistingly has be-

130 rand
come absorbed, colonized if you will, in a nation-making process. It is a
storage and exhibition facility for the material culture of one of the other
peoples of the United States. Exhibits, gift shops, and restaurants serve a
non-Native audience. Most Native people will never see the nmai. The
nmai has compensated them with a “Fourth Museum” that will reach out
to them via the Internet and traveling programs, projects that will never
substitute for the real thing. Brady’s assessment of the nmai as a neolib-
eral formation makes a strong case that an opportunity to bring Native
people into the national consciousness has resulted in a watered down
amusement on the National Mall.

Part 2 Introduction 131

5
A Dialogic Response to
the Problematized Past
The National Museum of
the American Indian
miranda j. brady

Over the past several decades, museum practices and associated legisla-
tion have been shifting to reflect newer understandings about self-rep-
resentation and the exhibition of Indigenous material and non-material
cultures. Museums like the Smithsonian Institution’s National Museum
of the American Indian (nmai) on the National Mall have adopted more
reflexive and collaborative models to ostensibly include the perspectives
of those being (re)presented. The nmai’s new dialogic form and prac-
tices are responses to the problematization of its predecessors, including
the U.S. Army Medical Museum (amm), which was the source of some
of the National Museum of Natural History’s (nmnh) collections, and
the George Gustav Heye Museum of the American Indian (mai) in New
York, from which the nmai’s collections were acquired.1 In other words,
certain aspects of museum form and practice have been troubled, and the
nmai has arisen as a solution. One of the ways in which the nmai denat-
uralizes past approaches is in its own self-understanding and approach
to communication. While previous sites proposed to advance a priori
knowledge via a static transmission model, the nmai questions dominant
history through a more dialogic approach to communication. 2 Using col-
lections, technology devices, architecture, and telepresence to help visi-
tors connect with the lived spaces of a largely remote constituency, the
nmai understands its role as a platform for “giving voice” and as a site of
“multicultural dialogue.”3 Dialogic approaches to communication have
marked several phases in the creation of the museum ranging from ar-

133
chitectural design to the curatorial process to other methods of working
in “consultation, collaboration, and cooperation” with American Indians
and Natives of the Western Hemisphere.4 However, while the nmai con-
siders itself a solution to troubled museological approaches to commu-
nication, other practices remain naturalized. Although for many Ameri-
can Indian people the nmai represents an unprecedented expression of
cultural sovereignty, the museum has a number of problematic aspects
that have yet to be questioned, including its role in reproducing national
identity, the fund-driven majority museum, and the collection of Native
culture for a largely non-Native audience.5
The following explores the emergence and constitution of the nmai
and some of the ways in which it has arisen as a response to the prac-
tices of its predecessors. This paper will discuss not only the museum’s
most celebrated capacities but also the residual museological practices
that accompany them; the goal is to ask why particular contradictions
persist despite major shifts in understanding regarding the representa-
tion of Native cultures. This paper will apply Michel Foucault’s notion of
problematization to museological study; explore the historically situated
condition of the nmai’s predecessors; detail the ways in which the nmai
and associated legislation were a responses to problematized practices,
assuming more dialogic approaches to communication as a solution; and
will finally question why particular contradictions continue in the nmai’s
approach.

Troubling the Past

Many traditional museum practices have been troubled over the past
thirty years in academic discussions, professional organizations, and leg-
islation. One major change has affected Native human remains. Once
considered to be national cultural patrimony, policy has prescribed their
deaccession from national collections to culturally affiliated groups as a
result of the 1989 National Museum of the American Indian Act and the
1990 Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (nagpra).
It took many years of activism to denaturalize dominant culture’s under-
standing of human remains as national cultural patrimony because their
systematic collection was historically justified by scientific and national-
istic discourses.

134 brady
 However, other museological practices remain naturalized, and still
others are new responses to past practices that are now considered unethi-
cal, impractical, or misrepresentative. For example, the nmai still works
to maintain the largest collection of the material cultures of Native people
of the Western Hemisphere for the enjoyment of a largely white audience
in a majority museum.6 Why does the collection of Native material cul-
ture in the nation’s capital remain naturalized? One reason might be that
it was not the national museum complex itself that was questioned.
We can understand problematization as a process of making natural-
ized occurrences, phenomena, or practices problematic in light of the
establishment of the conditions that make particular solutions possible.7
Also included in this process are the conditions under which it becomes
natural to question certain practices and the discursive formations that
make particular lines of questioning available. As Michel Foucault ex-
plains, “It is problematization that responds to these difficulties, but by
doing something quite other than expressing them or manifesting them:
in connection with them, it develops the conditions in which possible
responses can be given; it defines the elements that will constitute what
the different solutions attempt to respond to. This development of a given
into a question, this transformation of a group of obstacles and difficul-
ties into problems to which the diverse solutions will attempt to produce
a response, this is what constitutes the point of problematization and the
specific work of thought.”8
The problematization of the traditional museum has provided the con-
ditions of response, what is understood as a reappropriation, decoloniza-
tion, or subversion of the museum form.9 However, it is important to em-
phasize that while problematization is an analytic that places the novelty
of response in reaction to historical circumstances that circumscribe and
limit the range of response, it does not wholly make a determination. It
also means that while certain solutions became apparent, they were not
inevitable and were largely influenced by the kinds of questions that were
being asked.
Two major complaints launched against the majority museum of the
past by Native American activists were (1) the collection of Native hu-
man remains, sacred and funerary objects, and other material culture as
patrimony for use by majority culture and (2) the ways in which majority

A Dialogic Response to the Problematized Past 135

culture disadvantaged participation by American Indian people in rep-
resenting their own cultures and lives. These complaints came to the fore
when it became apparent that George Gustav Heye’s mai, an exemplar of
these offenses, might become nationalized. As Laura Dickstein Thompson
points out, curatorial input from American Indian employees was largely
ignored at the mai, and the museum’s model privileged museum profes-
sionals who were schooled in more traditional curatorial approaches.10
However, it was ultimately because the largest collection of Native objects
in the world faced financial instability and possible dismantling that the
Smithsonian Institution saw an opportunity to address such concerns. It
was under these conditions, with pressure from mai trustees and the state
of New York to keep the collection together, that a deal was struck with
the Smithsonian Institution to create the nmai and to annex the collec-
tion into that of the Smithsonian.11
While some objects have been repatriated, a major contingency of the
legislation was always to keep the collection intact. Many important fig-
ures at the mai and the Smithsonian were also quite nervous about the
prospect of repatriation being opened by the new policies. For example,
Julie Kidd, director of the mai at the time of the collection transfer, rep-
rimanded the mai’s American Indian trustees for agreeing to the return
of some of the collections as she believed “funerary” and “sacred” objects
might be too broadly construed. Kidd writes in a 1991 memorandum, cir-
culated to trustees, “Forgive me, but you, as the Indian leaders of the nmai
board have let your people down. You have made yourselves the heroes
of the moment — but you have sacrificed the future.”12
Although the agreement established that some of the collections be
repatriated despite internal anxiety, Kidd’s comments reflect the broader
drive. The nmai Act did address parts of the two major concerns listed
above, including the return of human remains and sacred and funerary
objects from the mai’s collections as well as from the broader Smithso-
nian collection. It did insist that American Indian people play an integral
role in self-representation. However, what remained unaddressed was
the majority culture’s tendency to collect and exhibit Native culture for
mostly non-Native audiences. The nmai’s planning documents indicate
that, while the museum will be serving Native people indirectly as “con-
stituents,” the vast majority of the “audience” for the Mall Museum will be

136 brady
non-Native.13 Several scholars have expressed concern about the abstract
treatment of polemical issues within the nmai, like genocide and repatria-
tion; and its planning documents indicate the nmai was well aware of its
audience when determining the “tone” of the museum:14 “The museum
has both a constituency and an audience. Although there is some amount
of overlap, these groups have different concerns and relationships with
the museum. The constituency is the Indigenous peoples of the western
hemisphere. With this museum the government of the United States is
offering Native people a place of respect and the opportunity to tell their
own stories. The audience will be the millions of annual visitors of all ages
and levels of education. Most of these people will be non-Indian citizens
of the United States and from abroad.”15
Unlike a tribal museum, which is generally located near the tribe or
American Indian nation where the residents can enjoy it, the nmai is lo-
cated in the nation’s capital, across the country from the homes of the vast
majority of people who identify as American Indian (Oklahoma, Cali-
fornia, New Mexico, Arizona, etc.).16 Planning documents of the nmai
indicate museum organizers were well aware of this distance.17
While the nmai Act was a response to the problematization of certain
Western paradigms, it responded to another question as well: how can we
keep this collection together and annex it into the collection of national
cultural patrimony? The nmai Act addressed some of the major concerns
of American Indian activists and was seen, along with the nagpra leg-
islation, in many ways as a major victory. However, it also further natu-
ralized the voyeuristic treatment and commodification of Native culture
by the majority, as it supported national identity on the mall. Although
some aspects of collection had been troubled, the conditions under which
the nmai came about were not conducive to the problematization of the
representation of Native culture in the national museum complex in gen-
eral. It was seen as self-representation without consideration of the ways
in which working within such a venue might frame American Indian is-
sues or delimit the potential for deep critical engagement with past and
continuing government policy.
Despite the shift in the nmai’s self-understanding, the tendency to
compile and maintain othered cultures to bolster nationalism continues
as a long tradition on the National Mall. For example, while the amm was

A Dialogic Response to the Problematized Past 137

founded to study battle wounds and illnesses, it eventually became in-
terested in Native crania and invested great effort in comparative analy-
sis between Native skulls and those of different races.18 At first, the amm
largely collected the dead from battle sites, but it later made a concerted
effort to acquire Native remains from burial sites or through trades with
the Smithsonian.19 George Otis, assistant surgeon and curator for the amm
proudly explains in 1876 that remote army outposts also had a new oppor-
tunity to contribute to the museum and the advancement of knowledge:
“many medical officers at remote posts, who had infrequent opportuni-
ties of contributing to the pathological material of the Museum, but ear-
nestly shared in the general desire of members of the corps to promote
its welfare, forwarded donations of Indian crania, of specimens of native
history, and of objects of ethnological or archaeological interest. The min-
erals, fossils, stone implements, pottery, etc., and the Indian curiosities,
were exchanged with other museums for objects more immediately con-
nected with the purposes of the Army Medical Museum.”20
The amm sought to advance nationalism through medical and scientific
discovery in addition to assisting other national offices in achieving these
same goals.21 As part of an effort to demonstrate its scientific research,
the amm participated in the 1876 Philadelphia Centennial Exhibition, cel-
ebrating America’s ingenuity and technology.22 Various skeletal remains
and demonstrations were prepared to show the latest breakthroughs in
anatomical and ethnological understanding made by the national insti-
tution.
Certainly, collecting was not a new phenomenon, and it often took the
form of pilfering other cultures to augment “national patrimony.”23 But the
widespread, systematic collection and scientific study of human remains
to bolster nationalism was a newer phenomenon.24 At the most basic level,
the amm demonstrated the legitimacy of westward expansion and prog-
ress by proving it could physically control the bodies of American Indian
people despite their resistance. The nation also indicated it could better
manage these bodies on a micro level by studying and diagnosing them,
connecting their collection and scientific study with a deterministic na-
tional moralism. Collections were acquired and organized into taxono-
mies that were consistent with the discourses of scientific inquiry, unlike
cabinets of curiosities and collections of the past; this was in direct jux-

138 brady
taposition with “uncivilized” American Indian people and many of their
understandings about burial and the appropriate treatment of their an-
cestors.25
The point in drawing this quick comparison is to emphasize the ways
in which national museums serve national goals, as Robin Marie DeLu-
gan similarly argues.26 Although the amm and the nmai represent dra-
matically different missions, it is important to note that they both worked
to naturalize the phenomenon of collecting Native people and culture as
patrimony for national identity. And yet, it is only limited aspects of col-
lecting (human remains and sacred and funerary objects) and the ways in
which collections are presented that become problematic with the nmai
Act rather than the phenomenon of the national American Indian mu-
seum itself.
The Floyd Favel video in the nmai exhibit Our Peoples and the accom-
panying passage by former Smithsonian secretary Lawrence Small both
work to justify the initial compilation and maintenance of the collection.
As Favel suggests, “Much that is preserved would have disappeared,” had
the white businessman George Gustav Heye not had the “wealth, the
wherewithal, and the desire” to gather the massive, 1 million–object col-
lection.27 Nearby, a panel attributed to Small acknowledged that we now
understand Heye’s motivations differently in a contemporary context, but
“In his unstoppable course, Heye saved an irreplaceable living record that
might otherwise have gone to oblivion. Out of his acquisitive passion has
come a legacy of inestimable worth, to heirs on whom he never reckoned.
Had he been someone other than who he was, he would have left us all
poorer.”28
Small’s statement is ironic and perhaps self-serving in light of his le-
gal trouble over a personal collection of rare-bird feathers.29 It also re-
flects an identification with those enjoying the objects preserved in the
museum rather than with those who might enjoy them in their lived
communities.
However, as mentioned, these naturalized practices emphasize the nov-
elty of the dialogic model. The nmai has a number of productive capaci-
ties, and the dialogic model assumed by the museum is an important
aspect of its productivity. Clearly, nmai predecessors like the amm, the
nmnh, and the original mai did not assume this dialogic model. Not only

A Dialogic Response to the Problematized Past 139

does the nmai emphasize the importance of conceptualizing its role on
the mall in dialogic terms, it has further encouraged dialogue in conver-
sations, extending into various micro-moral domains from general and
tribal press to academic discussions, political discourse, and conversa-
tions among tourists. It represents a major transformation in traditional
museological understanding.

The mai Becomes the nmai

The national museum’s shift from the scientifically oriented “universal”
museum to a site of self-articulated history signifies a shift in power-
knowledge relations.30 The nmai offers alternative modes of engaging with
objects, including nonlinear object placement. The building’s curvilinear
architecture and use of sandstone and landscaping juxtapose with more
neoclassical designs on the mall. According to Dickstein Thompson, the
nmai’s mission was likely informed by recent museum scholarship and
emerging trends in interpretive practices, including self-presentation and
the concept of “decolonizing” social institutions.31
Communications technologies were used throughout and in conjunc-
tion with the nmai Mall Museum to augment its dialogic function. The
museum works to (re)create “Indian Country” on the mall, using tele-
vision monitors and computer screens, and to authenticate its claim to
American Indian voice through video and pictorial testimonials. These
work in tandem with museum collections; lighting; aural cues; and use of
landscape, space, architecture, and movement. The use of multisensory
devices throughout the museum (from climate control to sounds and
lighting) helps to evoke an affective reaction on the part of museum visi-
tors. In essence, visitors are invited to use this (re)presentation to project
themselves into Indian Country.
In addition “cultural interpreters” or Native guides lead tours through-
out the museum. While tour talks seem somewhat scripted, they vary de-
pending on the individual experiences of the cultural interpreter. Each in-
terpreter has a different talk and tour prepared. They work performatively
to “give voice” to Native concerns.32 Where cultural interpreters are not
an embodied presence, they are made available via telepresence. Video
monitors throughout exhibits enable visitors to access prerecorded mes-
sages and interviews with Native people speaking about their experiences

140 brady
as members of particular groups and as part of their broader understand-
ing of what pan-Native identity means.
Digital kiosks are also used throughout the Mall Museum to augment a
more “interactive” experience. For example, rather than using wall labels
to present particular facts about an object (including its country of origin,
creator, catalogue number, and the materials that comprise it), the nmai
utilizes virtual kiosks in front of Window on Collections display cabi-
nets on the third and fourth levels. Visitors often go through two or three
layers to access information about an object, scrolling through a virtual
menu of other objects and then selecting the object for a closer look. In
limited cases, video and audio options are available through which users
might learn more about particular objects that are grouped into themes
like projectile points, beads, dolls, peace medals, containers, animals, and
so forth.
The nmai offers several filmic presentations each day, which typically
include Welcome Home and A Thousand Roads in the Rasmuson Theater
on the first level, as well as a multisensory presentation Who We Are in the
fourth-level Lelawi Theater. Museum planners called the Lelawi a prepa-
ration theater and hoped visitors would start with this multimedia pre-
sentation and work their way down from the fourth floor.33 According to
Beverly Singer, who was involved in the production of Who We Are, “The
prep theatre was always viewed in the museum planning as the gather-
ing place to prepare visitors to shed their preconceived ideas of ‘Indians’
by immersing them in a full-bodied experience of contemporary Indig-
enous life.”34 Included in the multisensory presentation is a projection of
images onto a variety of surfaces depicting practices, important beliefs,
and the environments in which various Native groups live. At the end of
the presentation, a montage of Native public figures is shown with a cre-
scendo of pop-rock music, and the beat of a drum ends the show as the
dim lights are turned up. Visitors often say things like “Cool!” after the
presentation is over, and they shuffle out into the Our Universes gallery.
The gallery is dark with a simulated fiber-optic night sky overhead, so
the flow is not disrupted as visitors exit the theater into the first of three
permanent galleries containing both culturally specific alcoves and areas
addressing more common themes. The topics of colonization, identity
construction, and connection with the universe are addressed through-

A Dialogic Response to the Problematized Past 141

out the museum’s galleries, although many have argued that the muse-
um’s approach toward such topics is ambiguous and abstract.35 In a video
shown in the Our Peoples exhibit, First Nations actor Floyd Favel recites
a script written by Paul Chaat Smith (Comanche) and Herbert R. Rosen.
The video, perhaps more explicitly than any other text in the museum, ex-
plains the purpose of the museum. Favel states, “This is about history and
about the past. Two different things. The exhibit that surrounds you now
examines the alchemy that changes the past into stories. The histories we
tell about it. The past never changes, but the way we understand it, learn
about it, and know about it changes all the time. . . . And over time, the
way others see us has changed as well.”36 Favel ends by challenging mu-
seumgoers: “This gallery is making history. And, like all other histories,
it has a point of view, an agenda. . . . So view what’s offered with respect,
but also skepticism. Explore this gallery, encounter it, reflect on it, argue
with it.”37
Favel’s invitation for visitors to argue with the museum provides an ex-
ample of the nmai’s self-understanding as dialogic. His own appearance
in the video and the aural, pictorial, and video evidence of contemporary
Native people augmented with the presence of a small but visible group
of Native cultural interpreters from throughout the Western Hemisphere
also work to produce this overarching dialogic theme throughout the mu-
seum.
The nmai sees itself as a communications technology. It attempts to
convince visitors that the version of “truth” that has been privileged by
traditional museums is only one possible version among many, and it is
one that reflects the imperatives and power relations of that particular
historical conjuncture. But, though the nmai responds to the problem-
atic static model of its predecessors, it continues to naturalize a number
of traditional museological practices while also creating some more trou-
bling effects of its own.

Residual Practices and Contradictions

While the appearance of the nmai reflects a shift in power and knowl-
edge formation, there are still many contradictions that are apparent upon
closer investigation; these hearken back to museological understandings
of the past. Perhaps the most serious of such residual practices within

142 brady
the nmai Mall Museum is its audience. The majority of American Indian
people will never make it to the museum, and as discussed, a distinction
is made in the nmai’s planning documents between those native “constitu-
ents” who will be served by the museum and the mostly white “audience,”
who will comprise the visitors to the mall.38 Alternative goals were sug-
gested in focus groups conducted with Native people by nmai planners
prior to the opening of the museum. For example, one participant com-
mented, “Programs that reach Indian communities are more important
than buildings.”39 However, the importance of a museum on the National
Mall went largely unquestioned, despite its distance from the majority of
American Indian people.
To address this issue, the nmai purports to bring the collections to
American Indian people through interpersonal and technological net-
working, thus augmenting the museum’s three physical structures with
an effort that has been termed the “Fourth Museum.” Director Richard
West has been fond of referring to the project as “the museum without
walls” and has emphasized the importance of extending the museum be-
yond its “proverbial bricks and mortar.”40 As part of the program, digital
versions of each collection item will be accessible remotely online. Ac-
cording to the nmai Cultural Resources Center (crc) collections man-
ager, Dr. Patricia Neitfeld, this task will be completed in 2008. (The entire
collection has been imaged, and the virtual images may be viewed at the
crc in Suitland, Maryland.)41
One of the difficulties of the Fourth Museum concept is the commer-
cial nature of the Internet and the threat of such a medium to traditional
lifestyles.42 In addition, though most contemporary museums work to
integrate digital media into their offerings from Web sites to interactive
devices, many Native and non-Native people have difficulty accessing
the Internet.43 Although this gap is closing and many Indigenous people
are using the Internet in a variety of unprecedented ways, we can still
question the ways in which communications technologies are touted as
a democratic panacea to social inequalities.44 The lives of Native people
have been voyeuristically documented and staged with every different
emerging medium for the majority culture, from the amm’s composite
craniology photographs taken in 1884 to Nanook of the North.45 In addi-

A Dialogic Response to the Problematized Past 143

tion, as Michael Brown suggests, new media like the Internet are particu-
larly conducive to sharing sensitive information with outsiders.46
The digital media within the nmai Mall Museum are also problematic.
Although virtual kiosks are considered more interactive, they provide the
same kinds of information generally available on a wall label in many
cases. Information is provided through merely another medium in the
Window on Collections displays, for example. That the users choose the
sequence in which to access information says little about whether they
feel a greater connection with American Indian people. Interactive kiosks
do not allow for idiosyncratic details that do not fit into the particular
information categories provided (e.g., date, place of origin, artist, materi-
als), with the exception of limited cases in which video or audio options
are available. Moreover, although nmai planners worked to create a less
object-oriented and more people-oriented experience for museumgoers,
the Window on Collections displays make objects the focal point, whether
they be virtual or physical objects, because they have been removed from
their cultural contexts and grouped according to themes like “beadwork”
and “projectile points.”47 My own observations during the summer of 2006
revealed that children are especially prone to access digital kiosks, often
without taking time to focus on the actual objects themselves from the
physical collections. Pushing buttons seems to become the focus in many
cases, and visitors also complained of limited kiosks being crowded by
children and other patrons.48
The drive to preserve Heye’s collections is a kind of residual practice,
despite alternative grouping. Although the new understanding does not
work according to the same “salvage ethnography” that drove the com-
pilation of the collection, rather than encouraging more progressive re-
patriation legislation, the museum exerted a great effort in creating fa-
cilities that employ modern technology “to control lighting, temperature,
dust, and pests.” Other factors are controlled as well. For example, while
one participant suggested, “Plant life has power,” The Way of the People
explains that plants should not be used inside the building as they might
attract pests.49 It suggests that costumes and “theatrical props” should be
“sealed and located away from collections” and that “windows, unless re-
quired for egress or access, should be non-operable and sealed and doors
should be provided with weather stripping to control environmental con-

144 brady
ditions and dust and also provide pest control.”50 Some focus group par-
ticipants emphasized the importance of being able to smell the wood and
the feeling of being within a wooden structure, stating that “You should
smell sage, wood, fish” and that the museum should be “a giant ‘scratch
and sniff.’” Yet the museum opted wherever possible to minimize the use
of wood and smells that might attract pests.51
In an nmai focus group, one American Indian participant said he kept
an important object, his father’s pipe, in a building that was “alive.” He
stated, “The pipe is kept in a frame building without environmental con-
trols — I don’t call it a museum. . . . It is still alive.”52 Despite such advice,
the nmai continues to store its collections in climate-controlled environ-
ments in the crc and the nmai to prevent their decay, while generally
only virtual versions will have the opportunity to be “lived” in American
Indian communities. Indeed, this drive to preserve objects still reflects
Heye’s original mission from 1916, which sought to “gather and preserve
for students everything useful in illustrating and elucidating the anthro-
pology of the aborigines of the Western Hemisphere.”53
Another major residual practice within the nmai is the use of expres-
sionless mannequins and dioramas throughout several nmai displays, in-
cluding the Hupa, Mapuche, and Anishinabe cultural areas in Our Uni-
verses. Planners of the nmai were well aware that such practices had
been troubled as these concerns were articulated in the 2000 The Chang-
ing Presentation of the American Indian: Museums and Native Cultures,
a collection of essays resulting from an nmai-hosted symposium of the
same name in 1995.54 Rick Hill, a Tuscarora artist and writer and former
special assistant to the director of the Smithsonian’s nmai, writes in one
chapter, “But the dioramas are in themselves a throwback to the old-style
museums that freeze Indians in the past. . . . The dioramas become a big
toy for adults.”55 He asks, “Will museums forever associate Indians with
dioramas containing life-size figures?”56
If consultants to the nmai were concerned with the implications of
dioramas and life-size, lifeless-looking mannequins, why does the mu-
seum continue to include them? One explanation for the persistence of
the dioramas in the nmai and other residual practices is that while com-
munity curators were given the opportunity to self-present, their under-
standing of such self-presentation comes from the traditional museum

A Dialogic Response to the Problematized Past 145

form with which they are accustomed. In such museums, the diorama is
standard. S. Elizabeth Bird had similar findings when she invited Ameri-
can Indian people to write a television show about themselves.57 While
all participants agreed that television shows generally portray American
Indian people in misleading ways, the shows they created fit the confines
of the television genre and its commercial form. While participants were
free to create any kind of text, they typically created situation comedies
or dramas. These were the television texts with which they were familiar,
despite the many problematic aspects of such forms, like their tendency
to solve complex social problems in half an hour or hour-long segments
and the pervasive flow of commercials and self-promotion.58 Similarly,
despite the collaboration and inclusion employed by the nmai, we must
ask what really changes when American Indian people themselves are
working within the confines of the cultural form.
The use of the identity category “Indian” is also a residual practice that
was first invented by Europeans to lump together all disparate groups of
non-Europeans of the Americas.59 We can even understand the nmai’s
overarching mission to represent all those people who are “Native to the
Western Hemisphere” as a residual practice shaped by George Gustav
Heye in his mission to collect the material cultures of those groups. Heye
articulated an “aborigine” identity for his collection, and the nmai con-
tinues to construct “Native” identity in terms of the geographic delimita-
tions defined by Heye.60 Had Heye wished to include in his collections the
material cultures of different groups, we would have a different articula-
tion of “Native” within the nmai.
While the nmai works to dislodge iconographic images of American
Indians perpetuated by Hollywood (as Favel states in the Our Peoples
video), the museum partnered with and accepted donations from enti-
ties that have clearly worked to perpetuate them. This raises a difficult set
of concerns between critical scholars and majority museum fund-rais-
ing practices. For example, the museum accepted money from a benefit
sponsored by Orion Pictures from the opening of the movie Dances with
Wolves and even invited actor Kevin Costner to serve as one of thirty-
seven Honorary Committee Members of the nmai’s National Campaign.
Scholars have argued that the film, like many Hollywood texts, reflects a
kind of imperialist nostalgia, which works to validate white experience

146 brady
and suggests an inevitable decline of American Indian people.61 In addi-
tion, the nmai partnered with Atlanta Braves owner Ted Turner in ex-
change for free airtime on his cable television network to promote the
museum’s fund-raising drive.62 The museum entered into the partnership
despite the fact that the team’s symbolic “tomahawk chop” and mascot
were widely criticized by American Indian activists; included in this criti-
cism was Charlene Teters, who said of Turner, “He just doesn’t get it.”63
Although somewhat indirectly, the museum’s affiliation with such parties
suggests it endorses them by deeming them worthy of partnership.64
Finally, the nmai museums won their locations after competing with
other historically marginalized groups for representation. The George
Gustav Heye Center in New York’s Custom House was originally slated
for a Holocaust museum, and the nmai Mall Museum spot was also highly
coveted by leaders promoting the Smithsonian Institution’s National Mu-
seum of African American Art and Culture.65 Such a phenomenon reflects
the political nature of voice and national recognition.
The preceding discussion should be couched in a broader set of con-
cerns over neoliberal museum conditions.66 While the examples provided
above might be some of the most egregious contradictions to the muse-
um’s self-articulated goals and have been selected in order to further the
point, they do illustrate the broader conditions under which the museum
became manifest. The point of raising all of these difficulties is not to dis-
pute the fact that the nmai provides a great sense of pride for many people
who identify as American Indian or the fact that interpretive practices are
shifting to include alternative, non-Western-centered perspectives for the
better. On the contrary, the nmai provides unprecedented opportunities
for disparate Native groups to enter into public discourse on a large scale
and to assume an expert position on their own cultures and lives. It en-
courages a new inclusive and dialogic model for doing so. However, this
shift is accompanied by its own problems. Inclusion can mean accom-
modation in a more pejorative sense. The rise of the museum within its
current neoliberal formation meant great pressures to fund this massive-
scale project and facilitated what I will call a series of unfortunate com-
promises, for lack of a better term.67
While the nmai was a response to problematized museological prac-
tices, like the collection of human remains and static notions of public

A Dialogic Response to the Problematized Past 147

education and “truth,” there is no doubt that the contradictions in the rise
of big-budget national ethnic museums like the nmai will be the focus of
future museum studies concerns.

As Dickstein Thompson suggests, many staff members at the nmai believe

the main difference between the new nmai museums and museums of
the past, like Heye’s mai, is the conscious inclusion of “Native American
perspectives.”68 Such inclusion might take varying forms and represent
different degrees of emancipation from past conventions. I would argue
the self-reflexive nature of the museum does question educational institu-
tions as static transmitters of information to emphasize communication
as a dialogic process. However, at the same time, it naturalizes the impor-
tance of the museum complex and nation building in general in lieu of
programs that more directly benefit American Indian people.
It is useful to remember that while now considered problematic the
practices of the amm were also, at one time, considered deeply patriotic.
Beginning in the 1960s, the sharp increase in ethnic museums and the dis-
appearance of the amm from the National Mall into obscurity illustrates
the problematization of the earlier model as discussed above.69 However,
both forms of national museum have taken part in the process of nation
building and represent a confluence of influences. And while some mu-
seological practices have been problematized and discursive formations
made some solutions available, other residual forms and practices con-
tinue.
The implications of attaching American Indian identity to the national
museum as a technology for entrance into public discourse are yet to be
seen. Moreover, the simultaneous construction of national identity and
partnership with corporate interest go largely unquestioned within the
contemporary national museum complex. Current conditions are made
possible through neoliberal formation in the midst of which the museum
has manifested and constituted itself. It is doubtful the museum’s avowed
goals can be seamlessly integrated into a national museum that is defined
by these tensions. While it is perhaps too hasty to dismiss the emancipa-
tory potential of the museum and its dialogic function, it is only through
critical examination that we might better understand the myriad ways in
which the museum is productive.

148 brady
Notes
I would like to thank the Newberry Library’s D’Arcy McNickle Center for Amer-
ican Indian History and the Committee for Institutional Cooperation for their
generous graduate fellowship during the summer of 2007. Additionally, I would
like to thank Michigan State University for sponsoring the “Indigenous Past and
Present” First Annual Symposium, from which this paper comes. Excerpts of this
paper are included in my PhD dissertation, “Discourse, Cultural Policy, and Other
Mechanisms of Power: The National Museum of the American Indian” (Pennsyl-
vania State University, December 2007).
1. The nmai Act (1989) addresses the practices of all three of these museums. Spe-
cifically, nmai legislation suggests much of the nmnh collection of Native human
remains was acquired from the amm.
2. For more on a dialogic model of communication, see James Carey, “A Cultural
Approach to Communication,” in Communication as Culture: Essays on Media
and Society (New York: Routledge, 1989), 13–36.
3. Anna McCarthy describes “telepresence” as the use of television to help viewers
figuratively project themselves into alternate spaces. See Anna McCarthy, Ambi-
ent Television: Visual Culture and Public Space (Durham nc: Duke University
Press, 2001); First Nations Plains Cree actor Floyd Favel uses the term “giving
voice” in a video in the Our Peoples exhibit. The script he recites is attributed to
Paul Chaat Smith (Comanche) and Herbert R. Rosen; nmai director Richard West
used the term “multicultural dialogue” in a speech to the National Press Club two
weeks prior to the opening of the nmai. In a speech broadcast on c-span, West
cited former Smithsonian secretary Robert McCormick Adams when he empha-
sized the museum’s role in “the encouragement of a multi-cultural dialogue.” See
Richard West, “The National Museum of the American Indian: A Historical Reck-
oning,” (speech, National Press Club, Washington dc, September 9, 2004), tran-
script online at http://www.nmai.si.edu/press/releases/09-09-04_NPC_remarks
_by_rick_west.pdf.
4. The wording “consultation, collaboration, and cooperation” is from the nmai’s
mission statement. See Laura Dickstein Thompson, “The Mission Statement
and Its Relationship to Museum Interpretive Practices: A Case Study of the Na-
tional Museum of the American Indian,” (PhD diss., Columbia University, 2001);
West, “National Museum of the American Indian.” The nmai’s mission statement de-
limits its representation to “Natives of the Western Hemisphere.” George Gustav
Heye actually first delimited the collection in his 1916 mission statement to “ab-
origines of the Western Hemisphere” according to Dickstein Thompson.
5. Amanda Cobb, “The National Museum of the American Indian as Cultural Sov-
ereignty,” American Quarterly 57 (2005), 485–506.
6. I borrow the term “majority museum” from James Clifford, who places such a

A Dialogic Response to the Problematized Past 149

 large-scale museum in juxtaposition with local, tribal museums. See James Clif-
ford, “Four Northwest Coast Museums: Travel Reflections,” in Exhibiting Cultures:
The Politics of Museum Display, ed. I. Karp and S. D. Lavine (Washington: Smith-
sonian Institution Press, 1991).
7. Michel Foucault, “Polemics, Politics and Problematizations,” in Essential Works
of Foucault, vol. 1, Ethics, ed. P. Rabinow (New York: Free Press, 1997).
8. Foucault, “Polemics, Politics and Problematizations.”
9. In the text of several display panels, the nmai calls such subversion “survivance,” a
concept coined by American Indian scholar Gerald Vizenor to indicate survival
with dignity. The “We’re Still Here” narrative articulated throughout the museum
also links to this discourse. See Gerald Vizenor, “Native American Indian Litera-
tures: Narratives of Survivance,” in Native North America: Critical and Cultural
Perspectives, ed. R. Hulan (Toronto: ecw Press, 1999).
10. Dickstein Thompson, “Mission Statement.”
11. Roland Force, The Heye and the Mighty (Honolulu hi: Mechas Press, 1999).
12. Memorandum from Julie J. Kidd to Indian Members of the nmai Board of Trust-
ees, “Re: Repatriation,” March 6, 1991, accession 04-170, box 4/8, Smithsonian In-
stitution Archives.
13. The Way of the People: National Museum of the American Indian emp, Progress
Report Executive Summary (n.d.). This report was accessed through archives of
the National Museum of the American Indian Cultural Resources Center in Suit-
land md.
14. See Amy Lonetree, “Missed Opportunities: Reflections on the nmai,” in “Criti-
cal Engagements with the National Museum of the American Indian,” ed. Amy
Lonetree and Sonya Atalay, special issue, American Indian Quarterly 30, nos. 3–4
(2006): 632–45; Amy Lonetree, “Continuing Dialogues: Evolving Views of the
National Museum of the American Indian,” Public Historian, 28 (2006): 57–61;
and Sonya Atalay, “No Sense of Struggle: Creating a Context for Survivance at the
nmai,” in “Critical Engagements with the National Museum of the American In-
dian,” ed. Amy Lonetree and Sonya Atalay, special issue, American Indian Quar-
terly 30, nos. 3–4 (2006): 597–618; Way of the People, Progress Report Executive
Summary. Sonja Atalay describes the overall “tone” of the nmai, and I borrow
this term from her.
15. Way of the People, Progress Report Executive Summary.
16. Clifford, “Four Northwest Coast Museums.”
17. Venturi, Scott Brown, and Associates, The Way of the People: A Detailed Architec-
tural Program for the Museum on the National Mall, Appendix. Master Facilities
Programming, Phase 2 Final Report, Smithsonian Institution Office of Design
and Construction (Philadelphia: Venturi, Scott Brown, and Associates, Septem-
ber 15, 1993). This report was accessed through the archives of the National Mu-
seum of the American Indian Cultural Resources Center in Suitland md.

150 brady
18. J. S. Billings, “On Composite Photography as Applied to Craniology,” Thirteenth
Memoir, Memoirs of the National Academy of Sciences, vol. 3, pts. 1–2, (n.p., 1884),
as cited by National Anthropological Archives and Human Studies Film Archives:
United States Army Medical Museum Composite Photographs of Skulls, http://
www.nmnh.si.edu/naa/guide/_uv.htm#jrg514. J. S. Billings and W. Matthews, “On
a New Cranophore for Use in Making Composite Photographs of Skulls,” Four-
teenth Memoir, Memoirs of the National Academy of Sciences, vol. 3, pts. 1–2, (n.p.,
1884), as cited by National Anthropological Archives and Human Studies Film
Archives: United States Army Medical Museum Composite Photographs of Skulls,
http://www.nmnh.si.edu/naa/guide/_uv.htm#jrg514.
19. amm, Check List of Preparations and Objects in the Section of Human Anatomy of
the United States Army Medical Museum for Use during the International Exhibi-
tion of 1876 in Connection with the Representation of the Medical Department of
the U.S. Army (Washington dc: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1876). As re-
cently as the 1980s, Smithsonian Institution public affairs specialists emphasized
the fact that the amm collections were comprised of fallen soldiers gathered in or-
der to advance medical knowledge about injuries. For example, in an internal
Smithsonian Institution Office of Public Affairs memorandum titled “Some of
the Most Outrageous Statements That Have Been Made by Indians Concerning
Remains,” director Madeleine Jacobs instructs her colleague: when speaking to
reporters, “Please remember that the Army Medical Museum surgeons were col-
lecting battlefield remains to study injuries so that they could improve medical
practices”; memorandum, August 17, 1989, accession 04-170, box 2/8, Smithsonian
Institution Archives. However, it is clear from the inventory list of the Interna-
tional Exhibition of 1876 that battle sites were not the museum’s only interest, as
many of the Native remains came from burial sites and were obtained through
trades that the amm made in a conscious effort to grow its collection.
20. Check list, 3–4.
21. From its inception in 1846, the Smithsonian Institution worked to legitimize its
place as a leader in international scientific work. When the Bureau of American
Ethnology was founded by the institution in 1879 as a result of director John Wes-
ley Powell’s advocacy, it helped to further legitimize and professionalize the field of
ethnology in the United States. See Curtis Hinsley, Savages and Scientists: The
Smithsonian Institution and the Development of American Anthropology 1846–1910,
(Washington dc: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1981).
22. Items from the exhibition helped the Smithsonian Institution to build its col-
lection base. Similarly, the Field Museum of Chicago, first known as the Colum-
bian Museum of Chicago, also built its collections through the 1893 World’s
Columbian Exhibition in Chicago. Field Museum, “Museum Information: An In-
troduction to the Field Museum,” http://www.fieldmuseum.org/museum_info/.
An area ripe for analysis is the way in which the Field Museum is now incorpo-

A Dialogic Response to the Problematized Past 151

 rating elements of a more dialogic model by including quotations from contem-
porary American Indians and communications technologies throughout its
Ancient Americas exhibition, opened in March 2007. One portion of the exhibit
is blocked off, and a notice simply hangs in place of a display that is now con-
sidered inappropriate, explaining the museum’s compliance with newer under-
standings.
23. See Tony Bennett, The Birth of the Museum (New York: Routledge, 1995); and Ela-
zar Barkan and Ronald Bush, Claiming the Stones/Naming the Bones: Cultural
Property and the Negotiation of National and Ethnic Identity (Los Angeles: Getty
Research Institute, 2002).
24. According to director Madeleine Jacobs’s August 1989 memorandum, the com-
parison had been drawn between the collection of American Indian remains by
the state and the practices of Nazi Germany. Among other items on the list of
“outrageous statements” was that “we are like Nazi Germany. Suzan Harjo says,
[the collecting of Indian remains was] ‘the first precursor of genetic experiments
in Nazi Germany.’ To which we don’t say anything.”
25. See Carol Duncan and Alan Wallach, “The Universal Survey Museum,” in Mu-
seum Studies: An Anthology of Contexts, ed. Bettina Messias Carbonell, (Malden
ma: Blackwell, 2004); and Rebecca Tsosie, “Indigenous Rights and Archaeology”
in Native Americans and Archaeologists: Stepping Stones to Common Ground, ed.
N. Swidler, K. Dongoske, R. Anyon, and A. Downer, Society of American Archae-
ology (Walnut Creek ca: AltaMira Press, 1997).
26. Robin Marie DeLugan, “‘South of the Boarder’ at the nmai,” in “Critical Engage-
ments with the National Museum of the American Indian,” ed. Amy Lonetree and
Sonya Atalay, special issue, American Indian Quarterly 30, nos. 3–4 (2006): 558–
74.
27. These quotes appear in the Our Peoples exhibit video.
28. This quotation has been taken from a panel in the Our Peoples exhibit, shown in
2000.
29. Elizabeth Olsen, “Smithsonian’s Chief Admits to Endangered Bird Violations,”
The New York Times, January 24, 2004.
30. See Duncan and Wallach, “Universal Survey Museum.”
31. See Dickstein Thompson, “Mission Statement”; and Linda Tuhiwai Smith, De-
colonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples (New York: Zed Books,
1999).
32. The Our Peoples exhibit video suggests that the museum is engaged in the pro-
cess of “giving voice” to Native people of the Western Hemisphere.
33. Beverly Singer, “The Making of Who We Are, Now Showing at the nmai Lelawi
Theater,” in “National Museum of the American Indian,” ed. Amanda J. Cobb,
special issue, American Indian Quarterly 29, nos. 3–4 (2005): 466–77.
34. Singer, “Making of Who We Are,” 468. It is important to note that the nmai uses

152 brady
 media performatively to help troubled past media practices. For example, in the
Our Peoples video, Favel singles out media like paintings and photographs as
well as Hollywood for essentialist, stereotypical representations of American In-
dian people as “saviors of the environment, barbarians, and noble savages. The
lowest form of humanity. Sometimes all at once.” One of the nmai’s goals is “de-
bunking stereotypes”; see Richard West, “From the Director” National Museum
of the American Indian Magazine, Summer 2007, 17.
35. See Amy Lonetree, “Missed Opportunities”; Amy Lonetree, “Continuing Dia-
logues”; Sonya Atalay, “No Sense of Struggle.”
36. Our Peoples exhibit.
37. Our Peoples exhibit.
38. Way of the People, Progress Report Executive Summary.
39. Venturi, Scott Brown, and Associates, The Way of the People: National Museum
of the American Indian, Master Facilities Programming, Phase 1, Revised Draft
Report, Smithsonian Institution Office of Design and Construction (Washington
dc: Venturi, Scott Brown, and Associates, November 22, 1991), 17.
40. Richard West, “From the Director” National Museum of the American Indian
Magazine, Spring 2007, 17.
41. Patricia Neitfeld, personal communication with the author, October 23, 2006.
42. Barbara Monroe, “The Internet in Indian Country” Computers and Composition
19 (2002): 285–96.
43. Lianne McTavish, “Visiting the Virtual Museum: Art and Experience Online,”
New Museum Theory and Practice, ed. Janet Marstine (Malden ma: Blackwell,
2006); Rachel Anderson, “Native Americans and the Digital Divide,” Benton
Foundation, 1999, http://www.benton.org/publibrary/digitalbeat/db101499.html.
44. Kyra Landzelius, introduction to Native on the Net: Indigenous and Diasporic
Peoples in the Virtual Age, ed. Kyra Landzelius (New York: Routledge, 2006).
45. See J. S. Billings, “On Composite Photography”; J. S. Billings and W. Matthews,
“On a New Cranophore”; and Nanook of the North, film, directed by Robert J.
Flaherty (Revillon, France: Les Frères, 1922).
46. Michael Brown, Who Owns Native Culture? (Cambridge ma: Harvard University
Press, 2003).
47. Douglas E. Evelyn and Mark G. Hirsch, “At the Threshold: A Response to Com-
ments on the National Museum of the American Indian’s Inaugural Exhibitions,”
Public Historian 28 (2006): 85–90; and Gwyneira Isaac, “What Are Our Expecta-
tions Telling Us? Encounters with the nmai” in “Critical Engagements with the
National Museum of the American Indian,” ed. Amy Lonetree and Sonya Atalay,
special issue, American Indian Quarterly 30, nos. 3–4 (2006): 574–96.
48. This assessment comes from interviews conducted by the author with nmai visi-
tors during the summer of 2006.
49. Venturi, Scott Brown, and Associates, Way of the People, Phase 2 Final Report,

A Dialogic Response to the Problematized Past 153

 3:105; Venturi, Scott Brown, and Associates, Way of the People, Phase 1, Revised
Draft Report, 18; Venturi, Scott Brown, and Associates, Way of the People, Phase
2 Final Report, 4:51–52.
50. Venturi, Scott Brown, and Associates, Way of the People, Phase 2 Final Report,
4:52, 53.
51. Venturi, Scott Brown, and Associates, Way of the People, Phase 1, Revised Draft Re-
port, 18; Venturi, Scott Brown, and Associates, Way of the People, Phase 2 Final
Report, 4:51–52. However, some wood is used in the museum, including replicas
in the Hupa and Yup’ik cultural areas in Our Universes, the floor in the Potomac,
and wall adornments in the café.
52. Venturi, Scott Brown, and Associates, Way of the People, Phase 1, Revised Draft
Report, 20.
53. As cited by Dickstein Thompson, “Mission Statement.”
54. Richard W. Hill Sr., “The Indian in the Cabinet of Curiosity” in The Changing
Presentation of the American Indian: Museums and Native Cultures (Washing-
ton dc: National Museum of the American Indian; Seattle: University of Wash-
ington Press, 2000).
55. Hill, “Indian in the Cabinet,” 105.
56. Hill, “Indian in the Cabinet,” 105.
57. S. Elizabeth Bird, “Imagining Indians: Negotiating Identity in a Media World” in
The Audience in Everyday Life (New York: Routledge, 2003).
58. Todd Gitlin, Media Unlimited: How the Torrent of Images and Sounds Overwhelms
Our Lives (New York: Henry Holt, 2002).
59. Robert Berkhofer, The White Man’s Indian (New York: Vintage Books, 1979).
60. Dickstein Thompson, “Mission Statement.”
61. Shari M. Huhndorf, Going Native: Indians in the American Cultural Imagination
(Ithaca ny: Cornell University Press, 2001).
62. Turner Broadcasting, “Turner Broadcasting expands Native American initiative,”
news release, April 7, 1993.
63. Bunty Anquoe, “Turner Praises Indians with One Hand, Chops with Other” In-
dian Country Today, December 10, 1992.
64. The nmai felt financial pressures from its inception, as the nmai Act required
planners to seek funding for one-third of the building costs of the Mall Museum
from private sources (approximately $36.7 million). The museum actually raised
about $70 million in the first campaign, and a second campaign pushed the nmai
to raise another $50 million, reaching the “ultimate private goal” of $120 million.
Memorandum, Mall Brochure, September 17, 2000, accession 171, box 4, Smith-
sonian Institution Archives.
65. Force, Heye and the Mighty; Dickstein Thompson, “Mission Statement”; and Toby
Miller and George Yúdice, Cultural Policy (London: Sage, 2002).
66. For more on museums and neoliberal conditions, see Jeremy Packer and Mary

154 brady
 Coffey, “Hogging the Road: Cultural Governance and the Citizen Cyclist,” Cul-
tural Studies 18 (2004): 641–74.
67. The presence from 2000 to 2007 of former Smithsonian secretary Lawrence Small,
a businessman and the first nonacademic, nonscientist secretary at the institu-
tion, demonstrates the shift of concentration to financial concerns. See J. Trescott
and J. V. and Grimaldi, “Smithsonian’s Small Quits in Wake of Inquiry” Washing-
ton Post, March 27, 2007.
68. Dickstein Thompson, “Mission Statement,” 174.
69. Faith Davis Ruffins, “Culture Wars Won and Lost: Ethnic Museums on the Mall,
Part I: The National Holocaust Museum and the National Museum of the Ameri-
can Indian,” Radical History Review 68 (1997): 79–100.

A Dialogic Response to the Problematized Past 155

6
West Side Stories
The Blending of Voice and
Representation through a
Shared Curatorial Practice
brenda macdougall
and m. teresa carlson

On May 26, 2007, after months of research, consultation, and negotia-

tion, an exhibit entitled West Side Stories: The Metis of Northwestern
Saskatchewan, depicting the social, cultural, political, and economic life
of eighteen subarctic Metis communities (see map 2) opened at the Die-
fenbaker Canada Centre (dcc) in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.1 The idea for
West Side Stories emerged from a need to communicate and disseminate
some of the results gathered from a large, interuniversity research proj-
ect, “Otipimsuak — the Free People: Métis Land and Society in Northwest
Saskatchewan,” which is currently funded through the Social Sciences and
Humanities Research Council of Canada’s (sshrc) Community Univer-
sity Research Alliance (cura) program.2 The nature of the collaboration
that went into the development of West Side Stories challenges the man-
ner in which Aboriginal communities, museums, and academic scholar-
ship can forge collaborative relationships. Conceived by three cocurators
from the University of Saskatchewan — Teresa Carlson, acting director of
the dcc; Brenda Macdougall, Department of Native Studies; and Keith
Carlson, Department of History — the purpose for designing the exhibit
was to locate an alternative means of communicating research findings to
a mixed audience of nonacademics, youths, scholars, and Aboriginal and
non-Aboriginal individuals in a way that was both informative and visu-
ally appealing. It was especially important to represent the more intan-
gible aspects of cultural heritage, such as the voice, values, language, and

156
2. Saskatchewan, Canada. Map by Elise Pietroniro, GIServices, Department of Ge-
ography, University of Saskatchewan. Projection: utm Zone 13n, nad1983. Source:
National Atlas of Canada. Vector level: 2,000,000, Natural Resources Canada.
Courtesy Brenda Macdougall.
traditions of an Indigenous people — those aspects of life that are rarely
given prominence within museum exhibitions, which are typically more
artifact-centered in design. The resulting exhibit relied heavily upon text
panels to showcase the research findings, which were augmented by pho-
tographic and artifact displays, as well as thematic reproductions. The em-
phasis upon text rather than visuals within an exhibit was unusual and
set West Side Stories apart from more traditional museological practice.
What emerged through the process of negotiating our shared curatorial
practice was an active assertion of ownership, governance, and voice by
each stakeholder as represented by the people of northwestern Saskatch-
ewan, scholars from the University of Saskatchewan, and the dcc — some-
thing that was permitted only by the equitable sharing of both power and
responsibility.
The sshrc’s cura program is predicated upon collaboration between
university and communities with shared research interests and goals. The
“Otipimsuak” project is engaged in documenting the history of Metis
communities of northwestern Saskatchewan and is engaged in capacity-
building projects by training local people in various aspects of the re-
search program.3 By the time the exhibit was conceived in early 2006,
much of the cura’s research effort had focused on traditional land-use
studies, on analysis of the political and legislative processes by which the
Metis were alienated from their lands, and on the overall economic his-
tory of the region — the areas typical of Aboriginal research in recent years.
Although research focused on the economic, legal, and political history
of the region was significant, the communities also wanted the stories
about their relationships to one another, to their spirituality, and to the
landscape to have a place in the project, providing a more intimate and
human portrait of Metis life in both historical and contemporary terms.
These stories became the foundation of the West Side Stories exhibit. The
collaboration to document this particular area of research by the Metis
communities of northwestern Saskatchewan, scholars from the Univer-
sity of Saskatchewan, and the staff of the dcc represents a new method-
ology for telling the story of a people in a way that reflects their cultural
values, beliefs, and sensibilities.
One of the most compelling reasons for mounting the West Side Sto-
ries exhibit was revealed early in the research project, challenging the
existing paradigm in which Metis history is captured. Within the larger

158 macdougall and carlson

research enterprise, which focuses on political, legal, and economic top-
ics, little effort had been made to reflect the social and cultural history of
the Metis community, including concepts about their ethnogenesis as a
people of the subarctic. But these origins are in fact part of what differ-
entiates them from the Metis of the south, demarcated by the histories of
the Metis of Red River and the Metis of the western plains, whose econ-
omy was dominated by the buffalo-based trade. Instead, the moment of
northwestern Saskatchewan Metis ethnogenesis can be traced back to the
eighteenth-century fur trade, when independent traders from Montreal
competed with the Hudson’s Bay Company (hbc) for economic suprem-
acy in the rich subarctic and arctic fur regions.4 Northwestern Saskatch-
ewan Metis identity was forged independent of the well-known and often-
discussed events of southern Canadian Metis nationalism, namely the
Battle of Seven Oaks in 1817, the mid-to-late-nineteenth-century history
of the Red River, and the events at Batoche, Saskatchewan, in the 1880s.
Therefore, this exhibit attempts to highlight historical moments, cultural
expressions, and economic and political processes that contributed to
making West Side Metis society a simultaneously distinct but integral
part of greater Metis history. As a result, West Side Stories challenges the
public to reconsider their understanding of who the Metis are and reflect
upon the diversity of Metis experiences within Canada.
The manner in which Metis history and society are interpreted has un-
dergone significant and important changes in recent years. Earlier gener-
ations of scholars interpreted Metis culture as though it consisted of the
worst aspects of First Nations and European societies, as though in com-
ing together the two cultures gained little and lost much. Alternatively,
other historians discussed Metis society as a static relic of the past, unable
to find relevance in a world no longer dominated by the buffalo hunt or
the fur trade.5 Early Metis scholarship also tended to focus on prominent
figures such as Cuthbert Grant, Louis Riel, or Gabriel Dumont, who led
the Metis in their struggles for independence in the nineteenth century.6
However, such biographical portrayals seldom presented a sympathetic
or balanced perspective that accounted for collective Metis sensibilities
or cultural beliefs.
Since the mid-1980s, scholars have forged new paths of historical in-
quiry. Increasingly, the focus has been on understanding Metis cultural
diversity through studies of interrelated subjects such as class and reli-

West Side Stories 159

gious distinctions, the borderlands experience between Canadian and
American Metis people, economic and cultural diversity between individ-
uals and communities, and, perhaps most importantly, Metis family life. 7
As a result, Metis history is now beginning to be understood in terms of
theoretical concepts of metissage, hybridity, aboriginality, and syncretism,
which allow for cultural continuity to coexist alongside a dynamic histori-
cal progression. It is now broadly accepted that while Metis society was
built on a foundation of cross-cultural sharing, it consists of much more
than the sum of its First Nations and European parts. While the Metis of
northwestern Saskatchewan appreciate the bicultural roots of their society,
they recognize themselves as a separate people — with both traditions re-
flected in their history. For example, they continue to value First Nations
ideas about the centrality of family and individual and community iden-
tity, as reflected in the Cree concept of wahkootowin. This notion in turn
also respects Roman Catholic ideas pertaining to the expansiveness of
family, as seen in the relationship between the godparents and the birth-
parents of baptized children.8 The Metis further acknowledge the legacy
of broad regional economic ties, which so clearly influenced the corporate
social system and commercial trade that were introduced. While these
influences characterized the hbc, the Metis simultaneously participated
in traditional, subsistence-based harvesting activities.
Metis origins are now conceived as having emerged from within a dy-
namic contact zone that was more than just a cultural middle ground,
where economic opportunity coexisted with social convenience. Rather,
Metis history is the story of community and nation building, as well as of
how a new people can emerge. Metis origins may have begun in the fur
trade, but the nation and its people were shaped by a series of unfolding
historical events and processes. The story of Metis emergence in north-
western Saskatchewan is a part of this unfolding narrative and historiog-
raphy.

The Community
Undeniably, Metis ethnogenesis in northwestern Saskatchewan occurred
in the closing decades of the eighteenth century as a result of fur trade ex-
pansion across Canada and the northern United States. During the eigh-
teenth and nineteenth centuries, Metis communities emerged in these re-
gions within a generation of the trade’s establishment. The ethnogenesis

160 macdougall and carlson

of this new people was dynamic, occurring in different regions at differ-
ent times as the trade expanded and contracted.
Île à la Crosse is one of the oldest, most culturally homogeneous Me-
tis communities in the Canadian subarctic and rose in prominence dur-
ing the competitive race between fur traders to reach the Mackenzie and
Athabasca trade regions. It became a hub for Metis sociocultural devel-
opment in the subarctic. Independent traders Thomas and Joseph Fro-
bisher from the Montreal-based St. Lawrence trade network established
the first post at Île à la Crosse as an outpost for their anticipated Atha-
basca-based trade ventures. While the Montreal traders were the first to
move into northwestern Saskatchewan, they were quickly followed by the
hbc in the 1780s. On these initial excursions, French Canadian, English,
and Scottish traders from the xy, North West, and Hudson’s Bay compa-
nies, respectively, began to establish, as part of their trading experience,
intimate and often long-lasting relationships with local Cree and Dene
women.9 These initial unions between non-Aboriginal men and Indian
women are best characterized as that of a protogeneration who, while not
Metis, sparked the creation of this new society. The result of these unions
was the ethnogenesis of the Metis and the region’s formation of commu-
nities such as La Loche, Green Lake, Beauval, Dillon, and Pinehouse, all
located across northwestern Saskatchewan. The West Side consequently
became home to a group of Metis who worked in the fur trade for gen-
erations, in occupations ranging from traders and servants to freemen,
subsistence hunters, and fishermen.
Roman Catholic missionaries from the Order of Mary Immaculate
(otherwise known as the Oblates or as the omi) arrived in the region in
1845 to establish, at Île à la Crosse in 1846, the first western mission out-
side of Red River. Subsequent missions were permanently established at
Green Lake in 1875 and La Loche in 1890. In addition to these three per-
manent mission stations, other Catholic missions operated in various
communities as needed, and itinerant priests regularly traveled through-
out the region.10 Upon their arrival in the mid-nineteenth century, the
Oblates encountered a people who already understood and practiced the
holy sacraments, observed the Sabbath regularly, and acknowledged the
powers of the saints over their lives. Just as the Metis incorporated the fur
trade into their cultural development on the West Side, they also created
a flourishing socioreligious lifestyle marked by periods of both intense

West Side Stories 161

revelry and religious piety.11 Within this milieu, the church worked to es-
tablish itself among these people, acculturating to the demands of Metis
identity while striving to improve the rudimentary teachings of Catholi-
cism, which had been held by residents since the early the nineteenth
century.
Over the next five generations, Metis families of the West Side worked
within the economy of the fur trade, intermarried with one another as
well as with nearby Cree and Dene community members and incoming
traders, adhered to a new form of Catholicism, and, in turn, shaped the
region into a homeland. The extension of Treaty Six and Treaty Ten into
the region in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries and the
concurrent issuance of scrip marked the beginning of a new era in the
north, as Canadian legal and political structures extended into the region.
For the first time, there was an imposed and arbitrarily created legal and
jurisdictional distinction separating Indians from Half-Breeds: the for-
mer group took treaty, while the latter was issued scrip; one group were
now wards of the federal government and had their lives regulated by
the Indian Act of 1867, while the other were citizens of the state; one had
treaty rights protected by law, while the other had ceded all rights to the
lands and resources and therefore enjoyed no such protection, either real
or theoretical. These legal distinctions, however, had minimal impact on
the people of the region until the provincial government of Saskatchewan
obtained jurisdictional authority over natural resources via the Natural
Resource Transfer Agreement in 1930.12 With no constitutional protec-
tion as an Aboriginal people, the Metis were, for the first time, effectively
marginalized within their own homeland.

The Research
Although the Metis are now officially recognized as one of three Aborig-
inal societies in the Constitution Act of 1982 — alongside First Nations
(Indians) and Inuit — with existing and, more importantly, protected Ab-
original rights, Canadian legislation neither defines their term “Métis”
nor the scope of their rights. These two issues are important considering
that Canada’s northern regions are rich in natural resources that have be-
come integral to provincial economies since the late 1940s. The mining
sector and the oil and gas industry have, in recent decades, become in-
creasingly significant to Saskatchewan, once an agrarian-based province.
162 macdougall and carlson
Through most of the twentieth century, the provincial north’s 320,000
square kilometers have been extensively explored, developed, and pro-
cessed by mining and forestry companies, as well as by other resource-
extraction industries such as the commercial and sport fishing and hunt-
ing industries. Ownership of most of the land and all of the mineral, oil,
and gas rights is held by the government and managed from the provincial
capital, Regina, a city located approximately 1,300 kilometers to the south.
The region’s largely Aboriginal population — Cree, Dene, and Metis — have
historically had very little participation in this lucrative economy and have
not shared in the wealth extracted from their territories.13
Although few of the northern Aboriginal peoples in the province have
prospered during this era of internal colonialism, the Metis have been at
a far greater disadvantage. For instance, while they have participated in
both commercial and subsistence hunting, trapping, and fishing sectors
for generations, as provincial citizens in the postwar era, Metis have had
to obtain issued licenses to continue to pursue their livelihood and feed
their families (theoretically, registered Indians have had no such impedi-
ments and, as treaty signatories, have received much greater protection
for their traditional livelihood). In a region that has been historically low
on cash, purchasing a license can be too great a financial burden to over-
come for many Metis. Consequently, many Metis become “criminals,” ar-
rested and charged with poaching under provincial wildlife legislation.14
Furthermore, unlike their First Nations relatives, the Metis were not com-
pensated when additional limits were placed on their ability to engage
in traditional economies. In 1953, for example, the Primrose–Cold Lake
Air Weapons Range, a cold war facility for training American and Cana-
dian bomber pilots, was established. Straddling the border between Al-
berta and Saskatchewan, the range was organized so as to avoid Indian
reserves. However, the range encompassed traditional First Nations and
Metis hunting, fishing, and gathering sites. For the Metis Nation, four Me-
tis communities — Beauval, Jans Bay, Cole Bay, and Île à la Crosse — were
adversely affected socially and economically when residents were pre-
vented from accessing traditional harvesting sites within the range. Cit-
ing inadequate compensation and a loss of Aboriginal rights to hunting,
trapping, fishing, and gathering, the Metis demanded redress but received
no compensation until 2007. By contrast, First Nations groups who had

West Side Stories 163

lost their access to areas within the range were compensated a decade
earlier.15
The legacy of the pre-1982 era, during which time the Metis were truly
Canada’s forgotten and ignored Aboriginal people, fueled the passions of
contemporary communities to adequately research and document their
history as a people. As a result, in the past decade, the Metis of north-
western Saskatchewan have been engaged in research projects to improve
their political and economic situation in the hope that this will, in turn,
secure their social and cultural well-being. Through engagement with
academic researchers in the larger cura project, it is intended that an at-
las representing Metis history, society, and land use in northwestern Sas-
katchewan will be created. To that end, research topics were pursued that
could be easily integrated into regional maps. This approach, however,
produced uneven results, as the bulk of the initial research was focused
in the fields of historical geography, rural economies, and land use, with
emphasis on policy analysis and archival research. Researchers engaged
with community members to conduct traditional land-use (tlu) inter-
views, mostly with male community members. The presumption was that,
because men were hunters, trappers, and fishermen, traditional land use
revolved around those particular male economies. However, since tradi-
tional harvesting activities would have required an entire family’s partici-
pation, research on those activities could have produced a great deal of
data about family and community structure and organization. Regardless,
the roles of women and young people in the various levels of production
were secondary considerations. Similarly, the archival research focused
on the collection of scrip records for the Metis in northwestern Saskatch-
ewan, on files from the Department of Justice relating to the distribu-
tion of scrip in the region and across Canada, and on fur trade records
that provided insight into the historical resource economy of the region.
Again, by and large, these areas of research exclude women because of
the focus on typically public and political — and therefore male — zones
of interaction.
Perhaps not surprisingly, then, the bulk of the cura research almost
exclusively focused on the stories of men, whether political or economic
in nature. It became clear that the narratives of women were embedded in
the social life and cultural heritage of the communities themselves. These
stories also needed to be told for the research project to be balanced and

164 macdougall and carlson

truly representative of Metis society in northwestern Saskatchewan. As a
result, in the summer of 2006 two of the researchers — Keith Carlson and
Brenda Macdougall — organized a research team of five students, trained
them in community-based research methodologies, and took them north
to conduct interviews. The purpose of the summer research program was,
first and foremost, to locate stories that reflected issues of importance to
these communities and that detailed the sociocultural traditions of their
nation. The five students — MacKinley Darlington, Kevin Gambell, Jodi
Crew, Katya MacDonald, and Amanda Fehr — selected topics from is-
sues that had been raised during initial meetings held with the research-
ers and community leaders. Gambell and Fehr, who were employees of
the center, intended to eventually develop an exhibit based on research
at the dcc. In this way, the collaboration between the dcc and the cura
began in earnest.
The topics presented to the students were broadly conceived to cover
issues related to spirituality and religion, social organization, and north-
ern farming or horticultural practices. Throughout the summer, as they
visited communities, interviewed residents, and read secondary literature,
the students narrowed and refined their topics. Furthermore, they chose
topics from those broadly presented that heavily reflected their personal
interests, thereby creating a synergy between the community, the topic,
and themselves. This synergy resulted in the following research projects:
the influence of the Virgin Mary on the West Side’s form of Catholicism;
the emergent and distinctive form of traditional spirituality expressed
in public shrine sites and apparitions; the cultural, social, and political
meanings embedded in the organization and maintenance of local cem-
eteries; the role of communal gardening practices on social cohesion and
support; and community spatial organization as a means of gaining in-
sight into the values and ethos of a people. Each of these research projects
had a significant impact on the conceptualization, creation, and message
eventually conveyed within the exhibit.

The Pedagogy
An integral aspect of the research process is, of course, the dissemina-
tion of results. For scholars, this typically involves writing papers and
monographs for an academic or educated audience as well as present-

West Side Stories 165

ing at conferences. Too often, research conducted in Aboriginal com-
munities has had very little lasting impact on or contribution to the well-
being, intellect, or needs of the people who shared their knowledge, hos-
pitality, stories, values, and artifacts. Accordingly, it was the ambition of
those involved in this project to see the research data made accessible to
the Metis in a manner that they could appreciate, share, and enjoy. It was
essential that, as ethically responsible researchers, we produce useful ma-
terials for the communities from which the shared knowledge originated.
This decision was just as imperative for Teresa Carlson, acting director
of the dcc. Providing access to a broader population within Saskatche-
wan and contributing to the University of Saskatchewan’s centennial cel-
ebrations, which were planned for the fall of 2007, were two aspects of
the center’s greater mandate. The decision to produce a multifaceted ex-
hibit reflective of the varied research efforts that went into the cura at-
las project was unanimous. All that remained was to mount the exhibit
as it was envisioned.
Like scholarly writing, by definition and intent, both permanent and
temporary museum exhibits are factually based, well-researched, and,
generally, developed with the same types of processes and principles that
are applied in academic scholarship. In this sense, what we attempted at
the dcc with West Side Stories did not, in and of itself, contribute to the
development of new methodological approaches to innovative cultural
heritage displays. Even the concept of partnering with Indigenous com-
munities was not methodologically transformative. Indeed, recent schol-
arship in the field of museum studies has invested greatly in examining the
often tense and rather problematic relationship that has existed between
museums and Aboriginal communities.16 The reasons for examining this
relationship are by now obvious. As part of the colonial enterprise, mate-
rial objects, physical remains, and even the people of Indigenous commu-
nities were collected, catalogued, and displayed in order to educate and
entertain the citizens in colonial centers of power. Historically, museum
exhibits dealing with Aboriginal collections were seldom culturally sen-
sitive to the societies of origin. Museums often displayed “artifacts” such
as ancestral remains, funerary items (i.e., religious artifacts and regalia
that were highly personalized and symbolic in nature, such as medicines,
pipes and bundles, masks, and clothing), and other personal talismans

166 macdougall and carlson

representing the spiritual guardians of individuals. These items, central
to a society’s material culture, were often forcibly removed or stolen from
their home communities, a practice that is disturbing to living members
of the communities.17 The purpose of these displays was to inform and
entertain the viewing public with curios from “primitive” cultures rather
than to respond to the cultural sensitivities, ideologies, or belief systems
of the other. The secondary purpose for these displays, unstated but un-
deniably clear to any Aboriginal person who has ever been to a museum,
was to reinforce the power and authority of colonial regimes by display-
ing the collected, and often times confiscated or stolen, possessions of the
dispossessed.
There has been an increasing awareness among curators that these
types of displays are not simply insensitive but are relics of a colonial
past without a place in a postmodern, global society. Increasingly, efforts
have been made by various museums, often because of the demands of
Indigenous communities, to return to specific, identifiable, and locatable
communities many religious artifacts, human remains, and other cultur-
ally sensitive objects.18 Where repatriation is not possible, museums have
often removed culturally or spiritually sensitive items from permanent
displays, leaving in their place descriptions of the objects and reasons for
their exclusion. Part of this growing sensitivity of museums and other
cultural heritage agencies to the inappropriateness of previous represen-
tations of Aboriginality has been greater efforts to engage and collaborate
with Aboriginal peoples in the development of new research and curato-
rial practices.
Increasingly, there are Aboriginal people on staff at mainstream muse-
ums to assist in redesigning existing displays as well as to create new, ap-
propriate displays that include Aboriginal perspectives and voices. Typi-
cally, these employees work closely with local communities and elders to
ensure that displays of objects, therefore the message of exhibits, reflect
cultural sensibilities and values. In Saskatchewan, two instances of Ab-
original participation in museological practice have emerged at, first, a
regional cultural heritage center and, later, at a national historic site. Near
Saskatoon, Wanuskewin Heritage Park is a regional cultural heritage site
located on the banks of the South Saskatchewan River in an area that was
an ancient buffalo jump site, making it a place with a high degree of ar-

West Side Stories 167

chaeological, anthropological, and historical significance. Wanuskewin is
operated under the leadership and guidance of First Nations people and
non-Aboriginal academics and organizations to increase public aware-
ness, understanding, and appreciation of the cultural legacy of the north-
ern plains First Nations people. As such, its board of directors consists
of representatives from the University of Saskatchewan, the Federation
of Saskatchewan Indian Nations, the city of Saskatoon, the governments
of Canada and Saskatchewan, the Meewasin Valley Authority, and the
Friends of Wanuskewin organization. The creation of Wanuskewin was
possible because of the involvement of local First Nations people at the
conceptualization phase of development. Because they have been involved
since the beginning, Wanuskewin is now viewed as a proper Aboriginal
enterprise. Conversely, the Batoche National Historic Site is a part of the
national parks system and depicts the history of the armed Metis resis-
tance against the Canadian government in 1885. In recent years, however,
Batoche has benefited from hiring a Saskatchewan-born, Metis site man-
ager, who has worked to ensure Metis participation at the park through
living history and theatrical performances and through the establishment
of a genealogical center staffed by an elder. In turn, the site manager has
also partnered with scholars in research projects and conferences. While
Batoche is still a federally owned and operated site, the emerging rela-
tionship between the park and the Metis community is transforming the
way in which it operates.
Clearly, there is a growing trend within Aboriginal communities to
create and build their own museums or “keeping houses.” Aboriginal so-
cieties’ adoption of the museum as an idea has been transformative for a
people who had no historical practice of collecting and displaying objects
as a means of relating their history and sense of nationhood. Teresa Carl-
son has had first-hand experience in witnessing and assisting this kind of
transformation. In the early 1990s the Stó:lō of British Columbia realized
that, although their traditional territory encompassed twenty-one indi-
vidual reserves within almost 800,000 hectares, many non-Aboriginal
people in the area had no idea who the Stó:lō were, where they lived, what
their traditions were, or even that they continued to exist. The provincial
education curriculum mandated no teaching about the Stó:lō people, and
instead it emphasized study of Aboriginal societies from other regions of

168 macdougall and carlson

Canada. So several departments within the collective Stó:lō Nation (pri-
marily the Aboriginal Rights and Title and the Education and Community
Development offices) as well as cultural advisors, Stó:lō government offi-
cials and elders, local museums and archives, and the Chilliwack School
District developed a Stó:lō Nation education and cultural center.19
As a professionally trained museologist, Teresa Carlson, with Stó:lō
community members, created Shxwt’a:selhawtxw — the House of Long
Ago and Today — a cultural center that houses exhibits of past and pres-
ent traditions, utilizing historical artifacts as well as contemporary ob-
jects. The primary role of Shxwt’a:selhawtxw is not that of a museum but
rather of an educational center.20
Hands-on exhibits and experiences educate visitors of all ages in the
traditional practices and current lifestyles of the Stó:lō. The Aboriginal
staff of Shxwt’a:selhawtxw teach visitors not only that the history of en-
counters between the Stó:lō and the non-Aboriginal people is important
but also that shared traditions are threads that continue to link the pres-
ent with the past. What has resulted is a stronger relationship between the
Stó:lō and the non-Aboriginal communities within their territory. Non-
Aboriginal people now not only know of the Stó:lō and their past but are
also more aware of how they continue to live and contribute to their pres-
ent, shared communities. This results in more empathetic understanding
toward spiritual, cultural, and ritual practices of the living community.
The sharing of this knowledge has, in turn, resulted in greater numbers
of returned artifacts and objects from “personal collections” and small
local museums, in greater respect for areas accessed for spiritual and re-
source gathering practices, and in interest by non-Aboriginal people in
the protection of archaeological sites.
While processes may be changing, the fact of cultural heritage sites be-
ing artifact centered has not received similar critical appraisal. Aboriginal
and non-Aboriginal cultural heritage institutions have focused on archae-
ological, historical, contemporary, and environmental resources in the
forms of landscapes, monuments and sites, material-culture collections,
and archival-quality documents. Regardless of the type of facility — tradi-
tional museum or Aboriginal-controlled keeping house — they all begin
with the collection of artifacts, objects, or documents as the basis of the
displays. It is safe to say that most collections begin with objects that are

West Side Stories 169

gathered from a particular era or part of the world and are organized into
like categories such as “beadwork” or “clay pots.” These objects are then
utilized to re-create large-scale reproductions of the natural environment,
villages, or camp sites. In all instances, the objects tell the story. Mate-
rial goods are usually described in a scientific or anthropological man-
ner — this is what it is, this is what it was used for, this is who made it or
owned it, this is when it dates from, this is the material that it is made of.
The result is an emphasis on the object, while the people who created it
are a secondary consideration. This is not surprising, as the cultural her-
itage being managed, preserved, and interpreted are tangible resources
that can be easily used to represent a storied past. This reality has led to
the general practice of museum exhibitions being created around arti-
facts with very little textual information provided by academic research
rather than from objects located and used to corroborate the research-
based story being told.
It is the manner in which we began this project that has set West Side
Stories apart from other displays of its kind. Beginning with a research
project that, while community-based, was fairly standard in form and ap-
proach within the scholarly world, the pedagogy that informed West Side
Stories approached the creation of an Aboriginal-society exhibit from a
different place. Instead of beginning in the past or with artifacts, West
Side Stories started with a community of living people who wanted to
share their history, stories, values, and ideas about who they were and
how their community existed with outsiders who were not familiar with
them. Arguably, this is what would happen within the environment of a
keeping house, owned and operated by Indigenous people such as the
Stó:lō Shxwt’a:selhawtxw is. However, the difference here is that none
of the people involved were employees working to fulfill a specific man-
date generated by a community or members within the community. The
three cocurators of West Side Stories — Teresa Carlson, Brenda Macdou-
gall, and Keith Carlson — are all employees of the University of Saskatch-
ewan. Only one, Teresa Carlson, has previous experience with museol-
ogy and curatorial practices; and only one, Brenda Macdougall, is Metis
(although the West Side is not her territory).21 However, the community
heavily shaped the exhibit, because its members controlled much of the
research that went into the displays by choosing the themes, by directing

170 macdougall and carlson

the student researchers to areas and topics that mattered to them, and
by framing the story that was told with their needs and interests. Conse-
quently, West Side Stories began with words, not objects; and it is, there-
fore, as another institution’s curator observed, “text-heavy.”22

The Exhibit
The approach we took with West Side Stories placed agency for the story-
telling with the community, whether the text was fashioned from histori-
cal records, from the narratives of ancestors embedded in the historical
documents, or from first-person interviews that revealed the contempo-
rary voice and historical interpretation. The development of West Side
Stories began in January 2007; and while funding had merely come in
promises of support, the opening date was set to coincide with the arrival
on campus of over 5,000 scholars from across Canada and the United
States, as the University of Saskatchewan hosted Congress 2007 (the larg-
est joint annual meeting of all major academic organizations belonging
to the Canadian Federation for the Humanities and Social Sciences, held
in Canada). It was hoped that the exhibit would be widely seen and com-
mented upon by Congress attendees, which, indeed, is what occurred. An-
other central element during the development of West Side Stories was
to design it as an exhibit that, after its time in Saskatoon, could travel to
northern Saskatchewan to be displayed and permanently housed in the
Metis communities that originally participated in the project. Addition-
ally, the summer of 2007 marked the one hundredth anniversary of the
final Half-Breed Claims Commission that traveled to La Loche to issue
scrip.23 Taking West Side Stories north at the end of August would coin-
cide with this anniversary.
The three cocurators along with two graduate students — MacKinley
Darlington and Kristina Duffee, master’s students in history and Native
studies respectively — began conceptualizing the form of the exhibit. The
overall scope of the exhibit would examine the processes of ethnogen-
esis over time — how the communities not only emerged from but also
shaped relationships within the territory since the late 1700s as well as
how unique character and historical forces shaped their form of being
Metis. As such, the exhibit was not chronologically ordered in the lin-
ear manner that usually directs exhibits. Visitors could move throughout

West Side Stories 171

the exhibit in any direction, between past and present and from theme to
theme, without losing sight of the overall story. For instance, the history of
the mission was located next to more contemporary examples of religious
influence — such as a Marian shrine re-creation that demonstrated how
Catholicism and traditional spirituality work in concert today — which
in turn was next to a PowerPoint presentation of how communities have
created a unique typology for their homeland. Centrally located is a se-
ries of maps and other visual displays that are intended to orient visitors
to the Metis spatial conceptualization of the region in general and to Île
à la Crosse specifically. The placement of this element in a central loca-
tion was a conscious decision meant to encourage visitors to revisit the
land and relate to the stories of the people.
The central, overarching thematic structure for West Side Stories hinges
on a representation of the in-depth role of family in the emergence of a
new culture and in how individuals and groups of Metis related to one an-
other, influenced the fur trade, transformed Catholicism and traditional
spirituality into a new religious experience, shaped political relations with
others, and formed the basis of stories that became fundamental to our re-
search. We decided to prominently feature the students’ research projects
as three-dimensional displays. In this way, we re-created a Marian shrine
and cabin (with various items identified by their Michif names); a display
highlighting the local, often humorous names for various locations and
neighborhoods in the village of Île à la Crosse; garden and cemetery dis-
plays, highlighted through an examination of the history of economic and
spatial relationships of families in the region; and a scrip display that en-
compassed the narratives about how Canadian legal definitions disrupted
relationships between family members.24 Along with three-dimensional
displays of this research, each student drafted the content for text plates
and selected photographs to accompany their work.
Unable to confirm funding for the exhibit until the end of March, the
real activity of building the exhibit did not actually begin until about six
weeks prior to its opening. Until then, our time was spent planning ex-
actly what we wanted to see in the exhibit, despite our collective anxiety
that we would not be able to fulfill our vision or, worse, that we would be
left constructing displays made of papier-mâché and crayons. Regardless,
the exhibit planning pushed forward, and the team worked to appropri-

172 macdougall and carlson

ately transform the research and generate ideas about the overall content
of West Side Stories. Although many individuals conducted the research,
the overall presentation of the exhibit required a unified stylistic approach.
As a result, it was determined that Teresa Carlson and Brenda Macdou-
gall would handle layout and design. Carlson’s experience working for
the Stó:lō Nation museum in British Columbia gave her the skills to de-
sign the text-plate backgrounds and create an overall unified design ele-
ment. While drafting the text plates, Macdougall consciously ignored all
the museological rules regarding how much text is permissible to main-
tain the average person’s interest. Although advised that the average visi-
tor will not read more than about fifty words per text plate, many of our
plates exceeded that limit. However, most of the text on each plate was
interspersed with images in an attempt to establish a visual interest.
Because the exhibit was designed around text, the breaking of this car-
dinal rule of museology was necessary. As text plates were drafted, they
were sent to both Teresa and Keith Carlson for editing and review. Teresa
also began fashioning the layout for new plates. When gaps in the research
were identified, students conducted additional, secondary research and
located appropriate images or photographs to fill out the content, and ad-
ditional text plates were drafted.25
The strengths of each cocurator were drawn upon, and each heavily
influenced the overall look and content of the exhibit. For instance, in
addition to Teresa Carlson’s museum experience and knowledge of de-
sign, her internal university contacts ensured that necessary items, such
as vestments and other items from the Roman Catholic Church as well as
a poem and letter written by Metis-leader Louis Riel, were a part of the
exhibit design.26 Keith Carlson had strong technical skills, such as infor-
mation technology (it) and mapping capabilities, necessary to turn the
research on place names into the dynamic audiovisual PowerPoint pre-
sentation that was the central point for the entire exhibit. Brenda ensured
that, as the exhibit unfolded, appropriate and authentic artifacts (beaded
moccasins, vests, coats, and other items of material production, along
with tools and utensils) and artwork were collected from northwestern
Saskatchewan community members. Every item included in the exhibit
was worn and used in the work life of people, constructed by a Metis arti-
san, and, as much as possible, manufactured in the north by Metis people.

West Side Stories 173

1. Beaded smoked hide vest on display at Diefenbaker Canada Centre. Photo cour-
tesy M. Teresa Carlson.

174 macdougall and carlson

2. Detail of Batoche by Christi Belcourt. Photo courtesy M. Teresa Carlson.

West Side Stories 175

Additionally, Brenda’s broader contacts with Metis artisans and historic
sites, such as the Batoche National Historic Site, provided for the inclu-
sion of paintings and historic artifacts and reproductions in the exhibit.
While not necessarily from the north, these items enhanced the textual
focal points of the display. Only those items that could support and il-
lustrate the textual content were sought. So, while there is an element of
reproduction and viewing of material culture as is found in more tradi-
tional museum settings, these items were never the primary focal point
for West Side Stories. Significantly, no single item is more important or is
given more prominence in the exhibit than any other. These items were
not chosen because they were the oldest, the most beautiful, the most
representative, or the rarest — they were chosen only in so far as they en-
hanced (and did not detract from) the textual focus of the exhibit.
Significant to the overall look of the exhibit was its need to convey a
sense of theater or artistic atmosphere. The right ambience, more than
artifacts, was the ingredient that became the backdrop for the textual con-
tent. Finding just the right template for the text plates became a major

3. York boat on display at Diefenbaker Canada Centre. Photo courtesy

Brenda Macdougall.

176 macdougall and carlson

concern. A great deal of effort went into designing different backgrounds
with distinct colors and textures. Selecting appropriate fonts and sizes and
images was also part of the overall look of the exhibit. After some effort,
we settled upon using a hide vest as the background for the text plates,
altering it slightly to give it a more stylized representation (see fig. 1). The
goal was to make the text appear as though it was printed upon stretched,
smoked hide, making the exhibit appear as though it was a part of the re-
gion’s traditional economy and, therefore, cultural aesthetic.
Additionally, representations of intricate flower-patterned beadwork
on the text plates that introduced various sections were a subtle means of
both highlighting that form of Metis art as well as marking intellectual or
thematic shifts in the display itself. Instead of using actual beadwork, we
utilized the paintings of Metis-artist Christi Belcourt, which reproduce
beadwork using intricate patterns of painted dots (see fig. 2).
With this foundational work completed, we hired the artistic director
of the Saskatchewan Native Theatre Company (sntc), Mark Erickson,
and his assistant, Jesse Gerard, to collaborate on designing and construct-
ing the three-dimensional portions of the exhibit, including many of the
backdrops upon which the text plates were hung.
After consultations with the sntc crew, they took our ideas about au-
thenticity and our desire to set a more theatrical ambiance and applied
them to the design elements of the exhibit so that there was a singular
artistic statement and mood. Erickson further created backdrops, built
theatrical sets, and produced creative renderings of items that we other-
wise would have had no means of replicating. For instance, the sntc crew
created a three-dimensional mural of a York boat with canvas sails and
renderings of water (see fig. 3).27
An actual York boat reproduction would have had to have been bor-
rowed and shipped, a prohibitive cost. Furthermore, because York boats
were over forty feet in length, there would have been insufficient gallery
space to display a boat. The sntc crew also constructed a cabin in which
household items were displayed, built picket fences like those surrounding
people’s homes in many northern communities, and built a Marian shrine
with a mural of trees for a backdrop, as is commonly found throughout
northwestern Saskatchewan (see figs. 4 and 5).
The purpose for these three-dimensional pieces was not so much to
represent a real item but to set a mood for audiences that provided a sense

West Side Stories 177

4. Marian Shrine replica at Diefenbaker Canada Centre. Photo courtesy
Brenda Macdougall.
5. Replica of cabin at Diefenbaker Canada Centre. Photo courtesy
Brenda Macdougall.
of how people lived and interacted as well as how they created and de-
fined their cultural ethos.
It was important that the overall design and layout reflect the culture
that was being represented and provide the sensation of being permitted
to view a side of the northern Metis that is largely private and unknown.
To that end, the emphasis on the northern way of life was paramount. As
such, we avoided thematically or theatrically recreating the typical sym-
bols associated with southern Metis culture — the l’Assumption sash, the
particular shade of blue that adorns the Metis national flag, buffalo and
Red River carts, and the iconography of Louis Riel and Gabriel Dumont.
Some of these symbols do appear in the exhibit, but only when they are
a part of the history or cultural objects created within the communities.
These types of images are commonly used on most promotional materi-
als and displays for Metis people, and as such they have become indelible
symbols of the Canadian Metis essence. However, two particular aspects
made them inappropriate for our purposes. First, for the most part, they
represent southern, plains-based Metis societies; and second, perhaps

6. Riel genealogy display at Diefenbaker Canada Centre. Photo courtesy

Brenda Macdougall.

180 macdougall and carlson

more importantly, they are symbols of masculinity. It was critical that
West Side Stories provide a more balanced approach to gender and not
simply fall into the reproduction of stereotypical, masculine images. By
not recreating these iconic images, this exhibit attempted to challenge
people to rethink their ideas about who Metis people were, how they
lived, and what the culture is today.
However, because subarctic Metis identity contributes to and supports
concepts of the Metis Nation as a whole, there are instances when the
most iconic symbols of Metis culture appear in the exhibit. As already
noted, we included the poem and letter written by Louis Riel, but we did
so only because it enhanced and contributed to an important component
of the region’s history and highlighted the issue of relatedness as a driving
force in Metis community and cultural formation (see fig. 6).
While Louis Riel himself was never known to have been in northwest-
ern Saskatchewan, his grandfather had been sent there by a Montreal
trading firm to work; and while there he married a local Dene woman.
Consequently, Louis Riel’s father, Jean Louis Riel, was born in Île à la
Crosse. Furthermore, after entering the sisterly order of the Grey Nuns,
Riel’s younger sister Sara served as a missionary in Île à la Crosse until
her premature death in 1883. Because she was a nun, Sara did not marry
while in the region; but she did become a godmother for almost a dozen
children who were born while she was serving the mission and was thus
drawn into the family structure in a more personal manner than typical
for clergy. Had the Riel family not been so intimately connected with the
region, the letter and poem of Louis Riel would not have been included
in the text.28 Accordingly, the brief history of the Riel family is told from
a subarctic rather than a plains perspective.
The exhibit ends by raising some difficult contemporary issues with
which northern Metis communities must contend. Their continued tense
relationship with the Canadian government has come to the fore recently
and old wounds have been opened as the government seeks to settle claims
for residential school abuses. Home to the oldest mission station in Sas-
katchewan, Île à la Crosse was also home to one of the oldest boarding
schools in western Canada.29 However, the government under the current
prime minister, Stephen Harper, has declared without foundation that this
school was not a “residential” school funded by the federal government.

West Side Stories 181

Instead, it has been declared a provincial (and church-funded) boarding
school; and therefore, former Metis students are not entitled to compen-
sation, even if they suffered the same abuses as their First Nations cousins
who went to the federal residential school at Beauval, a community located
about thirty miles to the south.30 The injustice of this decision speaks to
the power that the scrip and treaty processes of the late nineteenth and
early twentieth centuries continue to have on shaping Canada’s concep-
tions of who is Indian and who is Metis. Not far from this portion of the
exhibit is the scrip and treaty display that deals with those very same is-
sues and demonstrates that even the treaty and scrip commissioners had
a difficult time distinguishing between the people in any meaningful way.
As pictures taken at the time demonstrate, cultural or physical markers
that could have distinguished Indian from Metis did not exist; and yet to-
day we have rigid legal categories that impact people in profound ways.

The exhibit, however, did not end with a story of betrayal but rather with
an assertion of identity and power through the use of community mem-

7. Samples of infinity beadwork at Diefenbaker Canada Centre. Photo courtesy

Brenda Macdougall.

182 macdougall and carlson

ber Rita Bouvier’s poem, “Land is the Politic,” and a collection of north-
ern beadwork that has transformed the Metis infinity symbol into a local
assertion of culture (see fig. 7).31
West Side Stories ended as it began, with stories of the land and im-
ages of the people who call it home. Our hope, though, is that this exhibit
does not end there. We still hope to see it travel to the north and become
a part of the cultural legacy that the Metis communities shared with us.
In many respects, West Side Stories was an experiment. It was an at-
tempt by all three cocurators to explore new media and methods for tell-
ing the story of a people and disseminating research data. The power of
the exhibit, however, lies with the people in the communities who directed
the types of research that were conducted and their hope to have their
story faithfully told. In this instance, the community did not simply have
input into the types of stories being told — they framed the content of the
entire exhibit through expressions of their values, ideals, and worldview,
all which became the exhibit’s text. Our goal as cocurators and research-
ers was to be faithful first to the culture being represented rather than to
museological practice. The comment that the exhibit was text-heavy af-
firmed for us that we achieved what we set out to do. We located a new,
transformative means to disseminate research results to a larger audi-
ence than could have been achieved with conference papers, articles, or
monographs alone. When people of the West Side attended the opening
of the exhibit, they commented on how profoundly touched they were
by what we had done, on how so many of the displays invoked memories
long forgotten, and on how satisfied they felt that it would be seen by the
young people of Saskatchewan. Similarly, noncommunity members also
conveyed their sense that West Side Stories was aesthetically attractive
and that the story being told was fresh and innovative. Significantly, West
Side Stories touched people both emotionally and intellectually because
it is an account of a people’s humanity.

Notes
The support of the northwestern Saskatchewan families and the Northwest
Métis Council made both the exhibit and this article possible; to all, we thank you
for your kindness and generosity. Financial assistance for this research and exhibit
came from the Métis National Council (mnc), the University of Saskatchewan, and

West Side Stories 183

 the cura project “Otipimsuak — the Free People: Métis Land and Society in North-
west Saskatchewan,” funded through the Social Sciences and Humanities Re-
search Council of Canada (sshrc). Thank you to co-leads Dr. Frank Tough, Dr.
Lawrence Martz, and Clément Chartier for your help and support. A special
thanks to all of those individuals who loaned us their personal art and artifacts so
that West Side Stories was a success. The writing of this article would not have
been possible if not for you all.
1. The Metis communities in northwestern Saskatchewan are all linked to one an-
other by family ties and shared histories. They include Île à la Crosse, Green Lake,
La Loche, Dillon, Turnor Lake, Buffalo Narrows, Dore Lake, Beauval, Patuanak,
Pinehouse, Sled Lake, Canoe Narrows, Cole Bay, Jans Bay, Michel Village, De-
scharme Lake, Bear Creek, and St. Georges Hill.
2. The “Otipimsuak — the Free People” project received three-year funding in 2004
and then received a one-year extension to complete the research. The princi-
pal investigators for this project are Dr. Frank Tough, University of Alberta; Dr.
Lawrence Martz, University of Saskatchewan; and Clément Chartier, former pres-
ident of the Métis National Council. It also involves various faculty and student
researchers from those two universities as well as trained community researchers
in those communities.
3. Throughout this paper the term Metis — without an accent — is used to denote
mixed-descent people who forged for themselves separate and distinct commu-
nities from either of their Indian and European ancestors. The use of the term
without an accent over the e signifies that it is being used to encompass all mixed-
descent people in the region. The reason for this choice is that Métis typically
implies specific historical circumstance associated with French and Catholic in-
fluences that originated with the eastern trade routes prior to the fall of New
France and the Scottish takeover of the St. Lawrence trade. The term half-breed,
also known as “the country born,” has historically referred to English and Scot-
tish mixed-bloods who came out of the Hudson’s Bay Company trade. The Me-
tis of northwestern Saskatchewan are predominantly, although not exclusively,
from French and Cree forebears. So we use the term to be inclusive of all mixed
ancestry people in the area. However, Métis has modern legal and political usage,
as it was spelled this way in the Canadian Constitution Act of 1982. For consis-
tency’s sake, this spelling has been adopted by Métis political organizations such
as the Métis National Council (mnc) and, therefore, is used as the spelling in the
cura project.
4. Jacqueline Peterson was the first to coin the word ethnogenesis in her PhD re-
search, “The People in Between: Indian-White Marriage and the Genesis of a
Métis Society and Culture in the Great Lakes Region, 1680–1830,” (PhD diss.,
University of Illinois at Chicago Circle, 1980). The term refers to the birth of a
culture, which, she notes, in the case of the Metis occurred in the Great Lakes

184 macdougall and carlson

 during the fur trade; although, she also argues that notions of being a separate
people with a national consciousness did not occur until the end of the Pemmi-
can Wars and the Battle of Seven Oaks in 1815 at Red River.
5. Perhaps the two best examples of this type of scholarship are Marcel Giraud, The
Métis in the Canadian West, 2 vols., trans. George Woodcock (Edmonton: Uni-
versity of Alberta Press, 1986); and George Stanley, The Birth of Western Canada:
A History of the Riel Rebellions (1936; repr., Toronto: University of Toronto Press,
1992). Giraud and Stanley both interpret Metis history as being the result of a col-
lision of civilization and savagery on the southern plains. As with all frontier par-
adigm scholarship, Giraud and Stanley explain the outcome of colonial conquest
and rationalize the relationship of the state to those cultures ill prepared for the
modern world. A similar, although more sympathetic, rendering of events and
treatment of the Metis can be found in John Kinsey Howard, Strange Empire (New
York: William Morrow, 1952).
6. Cuthbert Grant, a North West Company employee, led Metis traders and hunt-
ers in their first resistance against the Hudson’s Bay Company in the early nine-
teenth century, an act that resulted in the Battle of Seven Oaks. Louis Riel and
Gabriel Dumont are the two most celebrated Metis leaders having challenged the
Canadian state’s right to colonize western Canada. Through the formation of the
Provisional Council in 1869–70, Riel negotiated the creation of the Province of
Manitoba and secured land and cultural rights for the Metis within that province.
In 1885 Riel and Dumont attempted to do the same along the south Saskatchewan
River valley although their efforts resulted in an armed conflict known as the
Northwest Resistance. Riel was subsequently hanged for high treason, while Du-
mont fled Canada and traveled in the American West and Europe as a part of
Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show before returning to Saskatchewan, where he re-
mained until his death in 1906. See Don McLean, “Cuthbert Grant: First Leader
of the Métis,” Fifty Historical Vignettes: Views of the Common People (Regina sk:
Gabriel Dumont Institute, 1989); Denis Combet, ed., Gabriel Dumont: The Mem-
oirs as Dictated by Gabriel Dumont and Gabriel Dumont’s Story, trans. Lise
Gaboury-Diallo (Saint-Boniface mb: Éditions du blé, 2006); George Woodcock,
Gabriel Dumont (Don Mills on: Fitzhenry and Whiteside, 1978); George F. G.
Stanley, ed., The Collected Writings of Louis Riel (Edmonton: University of Alberta
Press, 1985); and Maggie Siggins, Riel: A Life of Revolution (Toronto: Harper Col-
lins, 1994).
7. Jennifer S. H. Brown, Strangers in Blood: Fur Trade Company Families in Indian
Country (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1980); Frits Pannekoek,
A Snug Little Flock: The Social Origins of the Riel Resistance (Winnipeg mb: Watson
and Dwyer, 1991); Irene Sprye, “The Métis and Mixed-Bloods of Rupert’s Land
Before 1870,” in The New Peoples: Being and Becoming Métis in North America,
ed. Jacqueline Peterson and Jennifer S. H. Brown (Winnipeg: University of Man-

West Side Stories 185

 itoba Press, 1986), 95–118; Gerhard J. Ens, Homeland to Hinterland: The Chang-
ing Worlds of the Red River Métis in the Nineteenth Century (Toronto: University
of Toronto Press, 1996); Sylvia Van Kirk, Many Tender Ties: Women in Fur Trade
Society in Western Canada, 1670–1870 (Winnipeg mb: Watson and Dwyer, 1980);
Martha Haroun Foster, We Know Who We Are: Métis Identity in a Montana Com-
munity (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2006); Susan Sleeper-Smith,
Indian Women and French Men: Rethinking Cultural Encounter in the Western
Great Lakes (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2001); Tanis C. Thorne,
The Many Hands of My Relations: French and Indian on the Lower Missouri (Co-
lumbia: University of Missouri Press, 1996); Lucy Eldersveld Murphy, A Gathering
of Rivers: Indians, Métis, and Mining in the Western Great Lakes, 1737–1832 (Lin-
coln: University of Nebraska Press, 2000); Heather Devine, The People Who Own
Themselves: Aboriginal Ethnogenesis in a Canadian Family, 1660–1900 (Calgary:
University of Calgary Press, 2004); Brenda Macdougall, “Wahkootowin: Family
and Cultural Identity,” Canadian Historical Review 87, no. 3 (2006): 431–62; and
Nicole St-Onge, “Uncertain Margins: Métis and Saulteaux Identities in St-Paul
des Saulteaux, Red River 1821–1870,” Manitoba History 53 (October 2006): 1–9.
8. Wahkootowin is a Cree term used to express the sense that family was the foun-
dational relationship for pursuing any economic, political, social, or cultural ac-
tivities and alliances. See Brenda Macdougall, “Wahkootowin,” as well as Brenda
Macdougall, “Socio-Cultural Development and Identity Formation of Metis Com-
munities in Northwestern Saskatchewan, 1776–1907,” (PhD diss., University of
Saskatchewan, 2005).
9. The xy Company’s actual name was the New North West Company; but because
of the confusion that would have caused, it was referred to as the xy Company. The
term xy was taken from the company’s brand, which they used to mark their
fur and supply bundles. See Lawrence J. Burpee, The Search for the Western Sea:
The Story of the Exploration of North Western America, 2 vols., rev. ed. (Toronto:
Macmillan Company of Canada, 1935); Edith I. Burley, Servants of the Honourable
Company: Work, Discipline, and Conflict in the Hudson’s Bay Company, 1770–1879
(Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1997); Gordon Charles Davidson, The North-
west Company (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1918); and Arthur S. Mor-
ton, A History of the Canadian West to 1870–71, 2nd ed. (Toronto: University of
Toronto Press, 1973). Despite a lack of firm demographic sources, archaeologists
and anthropologists have endeavored to trace the ethnohistorical and material
culture of the subarctic Woods Crees and Denes in northwestern Saskatchewan to
determine which people first occupied the region around Île à la Crosse. It is
generally accepted that the Churchill River is the dividing line between Cree and
Dene territory and that Île à la Crosse was the frontier between those two soci-
eties. See Robert Jarvenpa, The Trappers of Patuanak: Towards a Spacial Ecology
of Modern Hunters (Ottawa on: National Museum of Canada, 1980); Robert Jar-
venpa and Hetty Jo Brumbach, Ethno-Archeological and Cultural Frontiers: Atha-

186 macdougall and carlson

 bascan, Algonquian, and European Adaptation in the Central Subarctic (New York:
Peter Lang, 1989); David W. Friesen, The Cree Indians of Northern Saskatchewan:
An Overview of the Past and Present (Saskatoon sk, 1973), 7; and Morton, History
of the Canadian West.
10. The mission’s significance to the community is evident when considering the mis-
sion’s remarkable growth. Within a few decades, the Île à la Crosse mission be-
came a large, thriving religious and economic center in the region, housing a
contingent of Oblate priests, lay brothers, and Sisters of Charity (“Grey Nuns”),
who arrived from Montreal in 1860 to establish the school and hospital. By 1867,
missionaries had expanded the Île à la Crosse mission to include the Grey Nuns’
school for girls, an orphanage for boys, a small home for the elderly and infirmed,
and a hospital for anyone in need of medical services. Gaston Carrière, omi, “The
Oblates and the Northwest, 1845–1861,” The Canadian Catholic Historical Associa-
tion Study Sessions (Ottawa on: Canadian Historical Association, 1970): 35–66;
Thérèse Castonguay sgm, A Leap in Faith: The Grey Nuns Ministries in Western
and Northern Canada (Edmonton: Grey Nuns of Alberta, 1999), 2:17; Martha
McCarthy, From the Great River to the Ends of the Sea: Oblate Missions to the Dene,
1847–1921 (Edmonton: University of Alberta Press, 1995); and Raymond J. Huel,
Proclaiming the Gospel to the Indians and the Métis (Edmonton: University of Al-
berta Press, 1996).
11. The observance of Catholic rituals in the English River District has been attributed
to the efforts of Catholic Francophones in the employ of, first, the North West
Company (nwc) and then the hbc, who adhered to these rituals in an effort to
maintain, and also to re-create, familiar sociocultural values within a foreign
space. According to voyageur scholar Carolyn Podruchny, experienced voyageurs
ritually baptized novice Canadian fur traders in the St. Lawrence River at three
sites to mark their entrance into the West and, symbolically, the beginning of
their new lives. The third and final site of the voyageurs’ ritual baptisms was at
Portage La Loche, the northernmost post in the English River District, where the
men began the dangerous, thirteen-mile Methye Portage, a trail that covered a
succession of hills before arriving at the edge of a steep precipice demarcating the
continental divide. Just as baptisms were performed without clergy, hbc records
note that by the 1820s the local population acknowledged the power of the saints
over their lives and regularly observed the Sabbath. While not a mandatory re-
ligious obligation, Metis people of the district annually observed All Saints Day — a
holy day on November 1 for remembering martyrs. Furthermore, Sunday services
for the populace were held at the chief factors’ house at the post throughout the
early 1800s. See Carolyn Podruchny, Making the Voyageur World: Travelers and
Traders in the North American Fur Trade (Toronto: University of Toronto Press,
2006); Carolyn Podruchny, “Baptising Novices: Ritual Moments among French
Canadian Voyageurs in the Montreal Fur Trade, 1780–1821,” Canadian Historical
Review 83, no. 2 (2002): 173–74; Carolyn Podruchny, “‘Dieu, Diable, and the Trick-

West Side Stories 187

 ster’: Voyageur Religious Syncretism in the pays d’en haut, 1770–1821,” Etude Ob-
lates de l’Ouest 5 (2000): 75–92; McCarthy, From the Great River, 32–33; Carrière,
“Oblates and the Northwest,” 45–46; Huel, Proclaiming the Gospel; and A. G.
Morice, omi, History of the Catholic Church in Western Canada: From Lake Supe-
rior to the Pacific (Toronto: The Masson Book, 1910). See also Île à la Crosse Post
Journals, 1819–1820, November 1, 1820, hbc Archives, B.89/a/4, Winnipeg; Île à
la Crosse Post Journals, 1824–1825, November 21, 1824, hbc Archives, B.89/a/8,
Winnipeg.
12. When Rupertsland became incorporated into Canada in 1870, only the very small,
postage-stamp province of Manitoba was accorded the same status as the other
provinces in the confederation. Until 1905, when the provinces of Alberta and
Saskatchewan were created, the majority of what are now the western provinces
were collectively the North West Territory and as such were governed as a colonial
frontier by Ottawa. However, these provinces did not gain the full governing rights
granted to other provinces until 1930, when they gained control over their natu-
ral resources and resource revenue. Until 1930 development of those provincial
natural resources and any income derived from that development belonged to the
federal government, which would, in turn, transfer monies to Alberta and Sas-
katchewan accordingly.
13. According to 1997 statistics, Aboriginal people made up 87 percent of northern
Saskatchewan’s population of 40,000. There has not been a significant shift in the
population in the last decade; and, overall, the entire provincial population has
held steady at just over or just under 1 million since the 1960s. Graham F. Parsons
and Ron Barsi, “Uranium Mining in Northern Saskatchewan: A Public-Private
Transition,” in Large Mines and the Community: Socioeconomic and Environmen-
tal Effects in Latin America, Canada, and Spain, ed. Gary McMahon and Felix
Remy, http://www.idrc.ca/en/ev-28034-201-1-DO_TOPIC.html.
14. See F. Laurie Barron, Walking in Indian Moccasins: The Native Policies of Tommy
Douglas and the ccf (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1997);
and David Quiring, ccf Colonialism in Northern Saskatchewan: Battling Parish
Priests, Bootleggers, and Fur Sharks (Vancouver: University of British Columbia
Press, 2004).
15. While it was announced in 2005 that the Metis were to be compensated, no mon-
ies were paid out at that time. In 2007 the federal government again reassured
the Metis that they would be compensated, although to date no funds have been
released. “Métis Receive $20M in Bomb-Range Compensation,” cbc News, March
18, 2005; “Ottawa Pledges $15M for Métis Communities Affected by Air Weapons
Range,” cbc News, January 22, 2007. The Buffalo River Dene Nation, however,
have not been satisfied with the compensation and since 2001 have opposed what
they deem to be the theft and destruction of their traditional territory and have
actively asserted their rights to hunt there.

188 macdougall and carlson

16. Deborah Doxtator, “The Home of the Indian Culture and Other Stories in the
Museum,” Muse 6, no. 3 (1988): 26–29; Assembly of First Nations and Canadian
Museum Association, Turning the Page: Forging New Partnerships Between Muse-
ums and First Peoples: Task Force Report on Museums and First People (Ottawa,
1992); Moira McLouglin, “Of Boundaries and Borders: First Nations History in
Museums,” Canadian Journal of Communication 18 (1993): 365–85; and Danielle
LaVaque-Manty, “There Are Indians in the Museum of Natural History,” Wicazo
Sa Review 15 (2000): 71–89.
17. Majorie Halprin, “Museums Marketing and Modern Anthropology,” Reviews in
Anthropology 17 (1991): 99–110; Julia D. Harrison and Bruce G. Trigger, “‘The Spirit
Sings’ and the Future of Anthropology,” Anthropology Today 4, no. 6 (1988): 6–9;
and Richard Atleo, “Policy Development of Museums: A First Nations Perspec-
tive,” bc Studies 89 (1991): 48–61.
18. Unlike the United States, Canada has no Repatriation Act. Any removal of arti-
facts from public viewing or return of remains and objects is done only at the in-
clination of the museum or cultural heritage site.
19. The Stó:lō Nation education and cultural center was established in 1994. Within
a few years, the group’s work resulted in publishing two books with accompany-
ing teaching guides and syllabi, which could replace antiquated and irrelevant
core curriculum, as well as an award-winning historical atlas, which was on the
provincial best-sellers list for four consecutive months. See Keith Thor Carlson,
ed., A Stó:lō Coast Salish Historical Atlas (Vancouver bc: Douglas and McIntyre,
2001); and Keith Thor Carlson, ed., You Are Asked to Witness: The Stó:lō in Can-
ada’s Pacific Coast History (Chilliwack bc: Stó:lō Heritage Trust, 1997).
20. Shxwt’a:selhawtxw was born from a need for teachers and students to experi-
ence aspects of the Stó:lō way of life, philosophy, technology, and culture through
a hands-on approach. By touring the longhouse in which the Shxwt’a:selhawtxw
is housed, people can participate in demonstrations of fishing, weaving, and carv-
ing. See “Chilliwack,” British Columbia Tourism Travel Guide, http://www.brit
ishcolumbia.com/regions/towns/?townID=3357; Meagan Easters, “Repatriation
as a Reflection of Stó:lō Cultural Values: Tset Tháyeltxwem Te lálém S’olhetawtxw
(We Are Building a House of Respect)” (master’s thesis, Carleton University,
2004); and “Field Trip Information,” Fraser River Sturgeon Conservation Society,
http://www.frasersturgeon.com/pdf/HSBCSchool/fieldtrip.pdf.
21. With a postgraduate diploma in cultural resource management, Teresa helped to
develop the Shxwt’a:selhawtxw by both working with the artifacts and designing
the hands-on portions of the museum’s exhibits. She additionally worked in the
Stó:lō Nation’s archeological repository. Since being at the University of Saskatch-
ewan, Teresa has done the same work with the dcc, which mounts various exhibits
throughout the year and oversees the development of educational curriculum
about those exhibits so tours of school children are able to learn about issues and
ideas that they may not have had exposure to otherwise.

West Side Stories 189

22. The expression used was a descriptive observation rather than a negative criti-
cism, although it may have been a subtle assessment of our approach to the ex-
hibit. The speaker of that phrase also noted that the cultural heritage site where
he worked would never have used as much text to identify the collections being
represented and would have included more artifacts.
23. Scrip, either in the form of land or money, was offered to the Metis of western
Canada in order to extinguish their Aboriginal title. To qualify for scrip, an in-
dividual applied to the Half-Breed Claims Commission during travel to differ-
ent regions. Scrip was issued first in Manitoba in 1875 and then in the rest of west-
ern Canada between 1885 and 1921. Some of the most comprehensive descriptions
and analyses of the scrip system can be found in Frank Tough, “As Their Natural
Resources Fail”: Native Peoples And the Economic History of Northern Manitoba,
1870 (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1996); and D. N. Sprague,
Canada and the Métis, 1869–1885 (Waterloo on: Wilfred Laurier University Press,
1988).
24. Michif, a blended language of Cree (or Saulteaux) and French, has received a great
deal of scholarly attention in recent years. To a lesser degree, scholars have also
examined Bungi, a blend of Cree and Gaelic spoken by British Half-Breeds in the
Red River area in the nineteenth century. There is some debate among linguists as
to whether the language on the West Side is indeed Michif. However, the people
are firm in their assertion that they speak a form of Michif that is unique to their
community — it is more Cree than French in both content and structure. See Peter
Bakker, A Language of Our Own: The Genesis of Michif, the Mixed Cree-French
Language of the Canadian Métis (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997); John
Crawford, “What is Michif? Language in the Metis Tradition” in The New Peoples:
Being and Becoming Metis in North America, ed. Jacqueline Peterson and Jenni-
fer S. H. Brown (Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press, 1981), 231–42; Patrick
C. Douaud, Ethnolinguistic Profile of the Canadian Métis Mercury Series — Cana-
dian Ethnology Service Paper 99 (Ottawa on: National Museum of Man, 1985);
Margaret R. Stobie, “Background of the Dialect Called Bungi,” Historical and Sci-
entific Society of Manitoba 3, no. 24 (1967–1968): 65–75; and Margaret R. Stobie,
“The Dialect Called Bungi,” Canadian Antiques Collector 6, no. 8 (1971): 20.
25. Photographs were selected from several archival repositories including the Sas-
katchewan Archives Board, the Société historique de Saint-Boniface, and the Ga-
briel Dumont Institute. Material relating to scrip in northwestern Saskatchewan
was provided by the Métis Archival Project, directed by Dr. Frank Tough (http://
www.ualberta.ca/NATIVESTUDIES/research/mapresearch.pdf), while research
on more contemporary issues, such as residential schools and the Primrose Lake
Air Weapons Range, were obtained from recent news coverage by the Saskatoon
Star Phoenix, the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (cbc), and the Toronto
Globe and Mail.

190 macdougall and carlson

26. Two weeks before being hanged in 1885, Louis Riel wrote a letter and poem to
his jailer, Robert Gordon. Both the letter and the poem begin with apologies to
Robert Gordon for keeping him waiting for the poem and for the author’s poor
English before dealing with themes of spiritual redemption and virtue. This letter
and poem were in the possession of Edna Robinson, whose father was a newspa-
per owner in eastern Canada who came into ownership of the writing when he
published it in his paper. The letter and poem are one of the few known pieces of
Reil’s writing to be in English, making it extremely rare. Mrs. Robinson left the
letter and poem to the University of Saskatchewan in her will and the bequest was
turned over in the fall of 2006. See Louis Riel to Robert Gordon, October 27, 1885,
Special Collections, University of Saskatchewan Library.
27. The York boat was an inland boat used by the hbc to carry furs and trade goods
along inland waterways in Canada. It was named after York Factory, the head-
quarters of the hbc, and modeled after Orkney Islands fishing boats, which de-
scended from the Viking longboat. The York boat was preferential to the canoe
as a cargo carrier because of its larger size, greater capacity, and improved stabil-
ity in rough water. It was about fourteen meters long (forty-six feet), and the larg-
est could carry over six tons (13,000 pounds) of cargo. It had a pointed bow, a flat
bottom, and a forty-five-degree-angle stern, making beaching and launching eas-
ier. The boat was propelled both by oars and by a canvas sail, and it was steered
with a long steering pole or with a rudder when under sail. It had a crew of six to
eight men.
28. For an overview of the Riel family history, see Maggie Siggins, Riel: A Life of Rev-
olution (Toronto: Harper Collins, 1994). The information about Sister Sara Riel
was drawn from the Île à la Crosse mission records, Registres paroissiaux, 1867–
1912, Eglise catholique, Mission de Saint-Jean-Baptiste, Île à la Crosse, Saskatch-
ewan, Société historique de Saint-Boniface.
29. The boarding school at Île à la Crosse was established the same year that the Ob-
lates arrived (1846). However, it grew in size; so by the twentieth century, the
school boasted a separate school building and boys’ and girls’ dormitories. The
facility was simply known as the Île à la Crosse boarding school and operated un-
til it burned down in the mid-twentieth century. At that time, under pressure from
the community, the province of Saskatchewan assumed responsibility for educa-
tion in northwestern Saskatchewan and instituted a public school system.
30. The prime minister’s comments actually demonstrate how little we know about
the running and maintenance of the residential school system. We know from
community members that some First Nations students attended school in Île à la
Crosse, while some Metis students from the region attended school at Beauval.
31. Rita Bouvier, “Land Is the Politic,” in Blueberry Clouds (Saskatoon sk: Thistledown
Press, 1999). The infinity patterned beadwork came from the collections of Clé-
ment Chartier and Brenda Macdougall.

West Side Stories 191

7
Huichol Histories and
Territorial Claims in Two
National Anthropology Museums
paul liffman

This paper represents a long walk before we get to the museum. That is,
I first want to survey the wide field in which 20,000 Huichol (Wixarika)
Indians, who live scattered over 4,000 square kilometers of canyons and
mesas in the Sierra Madre of western Mexico, make different kinds of
claims about their territoriality. This field includes commerce, courts,
schools, and of course museums — where they sometimes represent ter-
ritory in paradoxically opposed ways. It also, most profoundly for them,
includes some of their sacred histories about the treks of their ancestors.
In these seemingly disparate venues, Huichols claim land rights rang-
ing from outright ownership of those 4,000 square kilometers (400,000
hectares or 1 million acres) to seasonal ceremonial, hunting, gathering,
and commercial access to ancestral places spread over 90,000 square ki-
lometers in five states surrounding the Sierra, a territory they call kiekari.
Huichol shamans characterize this territory as a network of “roots” (nana-
yari) based on economic and ceremonial practices around the hundreds
of extended family hearths.1
Therefore, to fully understand what Huichols do in museums, it helps
to understand not only their formal legal and political claims but also
their deeper histories of combining sacred and commercial practices and
the fundamentally interethnic nature of certain sacred texts. Ultimately,
understanding the point of view of Native American museographers may
require reframing the museum as just one of several venues in which Hui-
chols represent their identity and history. While museums are only one
of several venues for Huichol claims, symbolic legitimation of the state is

192
an ancient, constitutive function of their identity. That is, Huichol iden-
tity is less intrinsic than derived from producing symbols to reinforce,
if not to reconstruct, the identities of specific shamanistic clients, con-
sumers, and spectators of their art and ritual as well as of the nation as a
whole. The central question, then, is how Huichols understand their role
in museums as an outgrowth of their history as symbolic legitimators of
the state, a gift for which they expect recognition of their material claims.
This leads me to consider more generally the unequal exchange of sym-
bolic and material goods between Indigenous minorities and the nation-
states whose savage founding violated their rights in the first place.2
It is important to first consider the totality of a given people’s cultural
and political claims before analyzing a single exemplary one, like muse-
ums, in isolation. This is because you have to consider the relations among
the histories and audiences for the whole set of offerings, gifts, petitions,
or demands for rights, resources, and recognition. The immediate politi-
cal conjuncture obviously influences which elements in this set of claims
people decide to foreground and combine. Indeed, the very notion of
“claims” cannot be neatly confined to any specific domain of practice.
Instead it is more productive to consider that the general structure of ex-
change may have always and already encompassed (or at least provided
the basis for) political, ritual, and museum representations of culture.
In short, the production of cultural texts is best treated as contingent
on a historically deep and sociologically broad view that extends outward
to consider the diverse audiences and inward to consider how representa-
tive the performers involved might be. In this, I am summarizing Charles
Briggs’s ethnography of traditionalization and his drawing out the literally
spatial referents of the term discursive cartographies in two of his essays.3
Where I differ from Briggs is that I do not distinguish a priori between
claims made by Indigenous political brokers who perform their identities
to the public or to the state from those made by shamans who petition
with sacrifices for resources and other kinds of reciprocity from their sa-
cred ancestors (who in turn were historically tied to Indigenous states, at
least in the case of the Huichols). Briggs distinguishes between these two
modalities because of their qualitatively different access to mass-medi-
ated audiences and the means of representation required to reach them,
even though he recognizes the formal similarities between their attempts

Huichol Histories and Territorial Claims 193

to encompass the local in global terms. Instead, at least in a formal sense,
they are all part of a performative and pragmatic dimension of culture. It
is up to a further ethnography of communication to determine how dif-
ferently situated local Indigenous people who produce such representa-
tions might distinguish among these modalities.
Indeed, in its broadest discursive sense, claims to define Huichol cul-
tural property — what constitutes the territory called kiekari — extend be-
yond Huichols themselves to a whole field of overlapping interlocutors.
You could say that Huichol symbolic production in the public sphere
constitutes a kind of contact zone that is not so different from what Mary
Louise Pratt and James Clifford describe for museums: a place where dif-
ferent narratives and practices overlap. These narratives and practices
have been informed by philosophers’ phenomenology of “place,” histo-
rians’ analyses of agrarian conflict, and anthropologists’ approaches to
land tenure and space. But, in the end, all of them in some sense refer-
ence Huichol shamans’ characterization of kiekari as a network of “roots.”
In turn, Huichol political leaders have produced discourses about these
roots that appropriate classical anthropological models of culture for the
courts, local government, schools, and museums. And these discourses
in turn give more grist to the shamans.
Here is how it works: through blood sacrifices, temple ceremonies, and
treks to ancestral sacred places, Huichol household and temple groups
produce and keep redefining kinship bonds and links to land. This net-
work of people and places must then be “registered” by fasting and leav-
ing sacrificial offerings with the ancestral owners of the landscape, who
are seated in the San Luis Potosí desert. Shamans refer to this ritually in-
stantiated territoriality as if it were a metaphysical bureaucracy in which
the offerings are analogous to the bribes and petitions that are stereotyp-
ically consumed by police and functionaries. In a historical sense, these
offerings can be seen as ceremonial tribute, which Huichols have been
rendering in one way or another for a millennium or more — since they
first traversed this vast region as seasonal hunter-gatherers and traders
in precious goods, such as turquoise, feathers, and peyote.
Therefore Huichol commercial claims to museum space — which at first
glance would seem to undercut the sacred nature of that territoriality — are
intrinsically linked to it in deep historical and broad geographical senses.

194 liffman
3. Huichol kiekari, a 90,000 sq km ceremonial territory encompassed by the
five cardinal sacred places. The 4,000 sq km area belonging to the three Huichol
comunidades recognized by the government is shaded, center left. Map by Susan
Alta Martin.

Again, this system of ritual organization and economic practice has en-
compassed sacred places across 90,000 square kilometers over five states.
Because the government treats contemporary Huichols as embodiments
of the noble pre-Hispanic legacy that it claims as a source of legitimacy
and since Huichols say their ancestors need sacrificial tribute at remote
sacred places, Huichols insist that this territory must remain open to
their commercial, hunting, and gathering activities. They argue that be-
cause of their antiquity and their crucial importance to the entire nation —
indeed to the ecological balance of the planet as a whole — their sover-
eignty claims trump those of the Mexican nation.
However, that sovereignty is fragile because others keep invading
Huichols’ historical lands and otherwise challenging their territorial prac-

Huichol Histories and Territorial Claims 195

tices. Nowadays, religious and political leaders struggle to restore their
lands in the Sierra and to regain access rights and protection for the an-
cestral sites that lie beyond it in the mestizo world, and so redefine their
sovereignty as a people. Among those struggles are the aforementioned
land claims in the courts and museums, sacred site disputes in regional
politics, and a cultural revival movement in the local schools. By claim-
ing land rights through these channels, Huichols not only have brought
metaphors of national sovereignty into their rituals, but they have also
introduced metaphors about themselves as brokers with the ancestral
controllers of nature into national politics. This is why I do not want to
distinguish between shamanistic and more conventionally conceived po-
litical claims. Indeed, by combining them, Huichols temporarily recon-
cile the tensions between anarchy and hierarchy, rainy and dry seasons,
subsistence and commercial activity, and between the gender categories
that correspond to that set of dichotomies in their own “cosmovision.”4
They also address Huichols’ double image as exploited peasants and pre-
Hispanic survivals in the public eye, so such claims can be seen as simul-
taneously addressing different social and cosmological interlocutors.

Red Gringo
Let me now turn to two episodes from Huichol sacred history that suggest
where museums might fit into their worldview. The first of these episodes
was related to me at a ceremony when I was doing anthropological field-
work in San Andrés Cohamiata, a 750-square-kilometer comunidad in-
dígena (Indigenous communal landholding) located in territory disputed
by distinct ethnic communities and the state governments of Jalisco, Du-
rango, Nayarit, and Zacatecas in the Sierra Madre Occidental of western
Mexico. The second episode was told to interviewers from the National
Museum of the American Indian (nmai, where I would later work for a
time as a translator and curatorial consultant). Sacred histories, as adapted
for anthropological audiences, help tie together the broader senses of ter-
ritory, representation, and interethnic collaboration that Huichols bring
with them to museums. This explains why, in return, they may ask for
kinds of reciprocity that initially strike the casual observer as odd, out of
place, or incommensurate.
To set the scene, since the colonization of the Huichol region began at

196 liffman
the end of the sixteenth century and the predecessors of the current comu-
nidades indígenas were set up, every year as part of the Feast of the Magi
(los Reyes Magos, ideally held on January 6), each Huichol community
holds a major ritual of political legitimation. The incoming civil-religious
authorities, headed by the tatuwani or gobernador as an ascendant sun
king, complete a long procession from the regional administrative capi-
tal (which was Colotlán but is now Mezquitic) back to the village plaza.5
At this ceremony in 1995 during the height of litigation for the restitution
of thousands of hectares of colonial and independence-era community
lands, a shaman called Antonio, who lives in one of the most disputed
areas of San Andrés, recounted the first of the two narratives to me.
Both narratives are about the primordial trek of the divine ancestors
(kakaiyarixi) and santos (xaturixi), whose definitive actions created much
of the landscape of western and northern Mexico. In general, Huichol sa-
cred personages are objectified as places, and vice versa. The primordial
trek of the santos, unlike many other Huichol origin accounts set in the
eastern desert or western ocean, began in Spain and situates the sacred
ancestors in relation to that colonial metropolis, the Aztecs, and Hui-
chols’ contemporary mestizo and gringo interlocutors, in that order.
On that particular day in January, Antonio told me the historia of
Kiriniku Xureme (Blood Red Gringo). The original entourage of divine
ancestors, who would create the physical features of the landscape of Mex-
ico, departed from Spain. In Antonio’s version, they then arrived in Wiri-
kuta, the mountainous desert at the eastern edge of Huichol ceremonial
territory, where the sun was born. There, they acquired a tepari (a stone
disk used to cover an underworld offering chamber). The tepari was en-
graved with the image of an eagle eating a serpent. The entourage took
this to Mexico City, where they gave it to the Aztecs. Antonio related that
the Aztecs (not the Spaniards or the mestizos, as one might think) then
placed the image of the eagle and serpent onto the currency of Mexico as
the ubiquitous national seal. In exchange for this sacred value carved in
stone, the Aztecs gave the ancestral Huichol delegation titles to the land-
scape they had just formed through the very act of traversing it. Unfortu-
nately, these original land titles somehow were lost. Luckily, Red Gringo
kept photocopies, but the loss remains. The ancestors’ next stop was where
the Huichols now live in the Sierra Madre Occidental.6 Now, the shaman

Huichol Histories and Territorial Claims 197

explicitly linked the tale to the key event of the ceremony, which was tak-
ing place while he told it to me. Even more pointedly, he indexed my pres-
ence there by way of Blood Red Gringo, who was accompanied by Teiwari
Miyuawi (Blue Mestizo) and who was standing outside the comunidad
with a camera as the ancestors arrived at San Andrés — the fifth and final
place on their trek.
At the time, part of my role as an anthropologist included working with
the community and a nongovernmental organization (ngo) as a consul-
tant by assisting in territorial litigation through documenting the histori-
cal and cultural links between Wixarika people who were dispersed across
the disputed boundaries. So it is no coincidence that this history was told
to me during a ritual of legitimation, because it refers to the roles played
in the definition of land tenure and the national space by the Huichol an-
cestral deer-person Kauyumarie; the Spanish santos; the pre-Hispanic and
colonial political authorities; and by the contemporary mestizos — all of
whom Huichols struggle with for land. In other words the shaman An-
tonio was indexing the participants in the ceremonial context; the main
social actors in the broader historical context, of which the January 6 cer-
emony is part; the authorizing ancestors, whom Huichols believe deter-
mine historical and ecological processes; and the cosmological space in
which those processes occur. In retrospect his narrative also can be taken
to refer to the role of anthropological consultants in museum exhibits os-
tensibly under Indigenous direction: a sweeping, wide-angle view of the
performative construction of territory. Lest it be thought that this nar-
rative is an entirely positive account of interethnic collaboration, with
the sunburned anthropologist as culture hero, let me hasten to add that
the photographer Teiwari Miyuawi is an evil trickster figure associated
with the onset of the chaotic rainy season and, more importantly, mes-
tizo knowledge and power: a brilliant cacique (boss) who typically takes
his clients’ souls in return for his gifts.7
Returning to the ritual we were watching, the new hierarchy of the
comunidad were making a grand solar entrance from the east. These in-
coming authorities represent the original ancestors; so at the very least
this historia is a narrative of reciprocal legitimation between Huichols and
the state, in which the Red Gringo serves a reproductive and documen-
tary function. Antonio knew I had already been working as a historical

198 liffman
and cultural consultant for the ngo that was representing the communi-
ty’s land claims. Did he also know that I might be going to work at a mu-
seum with other members of his community one day? Aside from how
Antonio’s narration encompassed me, it also encompassed the Spanish
colonial state that gave out the primordial titles within the pre-Hispanic
Indigenous state. As in official government indigenismo, the pre-Hispanic
state in turn is encompassed by the contemporary Hispanic state. At the
same time, Antonio’s narration appropriated Spain as a land of Huichol
ancestry up beyond the eastern horizon where the sun was born. The
narrative thereby authorizes this Indigenous people to legitimate the
state by virtue of seniority. This is a function that non-Indigenous oth-
ers like me authenticate through graphic or photographic reproduction,
even as Huichols recognize a sinister power lurking behind such semiotic
processes.

Sacrificial Violence and Economic Value

The second narrative refers to a slightly later moment in Huichol his-
tory. Like the first one, it contains an Indigenous theory of political le-
gitimacy. However, it also features a theory of the origins of economic
value. That kind of value emerges from a violent ethnic split between the
very heroes of the first narrative, but both narratives tell us about the role
of intercultural relations in producing different kinds of value. This sec-
ond Wixarika theory connects the economic value embodied in silver or
gold, as well as the more profound cultural value and knowledge embod-
ied in peyote, with the fundamental currency of sacrificial communica-
tion: blood. As the first history showed, the link between Huichol sacri-
fice and mestizo wealth and power is also made through shared Mexican
symbols like the eagle perched on a nopal cactus (seen on both Mexican
money and the flag).
In the second narrative, an important feature is that it conflates the fig-
ure of Kauyumarie (the promethean deer-person from the first history)
with Tanana (Our Mother, one of two crucified Jesuses who reside in the
town church of San Andrés Cohamiata) and Tayau (the sun risen from
Burned Mountain in Wirikuta, where the primordial entourage men-
tioned above had first arrived). The key event is that the solar Jesus is
murdered by the mestizo Santiago (the patron saint of the Spanish recon-

Huichol Histories and Territorial Claims 199

quista as well as of the invasion of the New World). This turns Tanana-
Tayau into an ethnic symbol who stands for all Huichols at that moment.
This mediation between contemporary Huichols, their sacred ancestor
Kauyumarie, the sun, and Spaniards through an Indianized (and femi-
nized) Jesus challenges attempts to distinguish separate autochthonous
and Christian myth cycles, as the 1930s ethnographer Robert Zingg sought
to do.8 At the heart of this mediation is a speech genre that exemplifies
what Richard Bauman calls the “traditionalization” of historical and in-
stitutional processes. A focus on context as well formal content enriches
our understanding of myth and traditional knowledge. It also suggests the
depth and complexity of what has recently been called “the Indigenous
construction of nationality.”9 This history especially points to the complex
and violent relationship between Huichol ancestral power and the non-
Indigenous persona embodied in the Spanish patron saint of conquest,
Santiago.10 Of particular interest in the following exchanges is the gener-
ation of economic value by Santiago’s murder of Jesucristo (which trans-
forms the sun into gold) near the sun’s very birthplace, Burned Mountain
(Reu’unaxi or Cerro Quemado), located above the silver mines of Real
de Catorce, San Luis Potosí. This cleft peak looms above the peyote-rich
desert of Wirikuta and defines the eastern edge of the Huichol cosmo-
logical territory in one important set of contexts, although as we saw in
the case of the Spanish santos, not all of them.
At this point, I would like to let some Huichols speak for themselves,
albeit indirectly. The following exchanges include excerpts from various
discussions between ceremonial experts from San Andrés Cohamiata and
personnel of the nmai. The personnel included me, when I was working
for that institution as a translator and consultant for the Huichol cere-
monial experts who had been invited there. The key expert is Catarino
Carrillo, who had recently served as the tatuwani or gobernador of San
Andrés and therefore knew what it means to lead the January 6 proces-
sion and embody the ancestors.
Catarino Carrillo says11:

Tsi miki waikawa, timi kename ‘uwa mematinexia, Pariyatsutia me-

matinexia, Pariyatekia memakanexiata ‘iki kenawaniuri España.
[Well that’s a lot (of ancestors), the ones who emerged here (in the Si-

200 liffman
erra Huichol), the ones who emerged in Pariyatsutia (below, the west),
the ones who emerged in Pariyatekia (above, the east), that they say
(emerged in) Spain.]

Xayuritini España memanexia; ‘ena mehatinexia waniu Monterrey;

Monterrey memu’axia muwa ‘aikutsi hatei muwa mematinexia.
[If it’s true they passed from Spain; here they say that they emerged in
Monterrey (Nuevo León); from Monterrey they arrived there in ‘aikutsi
(an ancestral place in the desert) and they emerged there.]

Monterrey memanexia muwa. Menetaxere Werika muwa kaneuyeikani

muwa. Netaxere niu’iyamani, muneuyuhayewa.
[They passed there in Monterrey. They were there at the same time that
Werika (Eagle) lived there. At the same time he became accustomed
there, he stayed there.]

Mumemaxiriki katiaxi ‘iyari ri, watamamuyuhayewaxi muwa waniu

tumini wewiyakai temixexeiya. Muniuyihayewa tatsiri Tatutsi Pirat-
sixiku. Neutikeni manari xeniu miki muwa Reu’unaxi mana’unixi. Ku-
ruxite meme’unixi kename Reu’unaxi manata miki kakeni.
[Continuing to follow the path/life, they stayed there where we know they
say they made coins/money. Our Great-Grandfather Francisco stayed
there. (This refers to the Franciscan shrine complex at the Real de Ca-
torce silver mines and mint, and by extension to Guadalupe, near the Za-
catecas silver mines.) It is said that from there Reu’unaxi (the birthplace
of the sun) was destroyed. The varas (Brazilwood scepters of authority)
were destroyed, where Reu’unaxi stood.]

Muwari mekaxirixi Tamatsi xeniu muwa natikeni waxeiyati wariena

kanekaweni riki muwa mutaxerixi. Kauyumarie xeniu mutaxerixi mawa-
kanatiweni mina tewiyari xeikia maxa tewiyari muwa kanatikeni.
[From there it is said they followed to where Our Elder Brother (deer)
stayed behind and watched (over) them. It is said that Kauyumarie be-
came a mine-person and just stayed standing there, a deer-person.]

Entonces muwa miki mana waniu kename Tanana waniu, Tanana

waniu miki Paritsika, Paritsika waniu miku’eiyakai, Santiago waniu
ha’akai mana memanexia.

Huichol Histories and Territorial Claims 201

 [Then there they say that Tanana (Jesucristo), they say, Tanana, they
say, answered Paritsika, Paritsika they say. (Paritsika is a metonym for
Kauyumarie as the solar deer-mountain, Reu’unaxi.) They say Santiago
got angry when they passed there.]

Entonces, Santiago mikitsi ‘ukatiha’akai, miki Paritsika xeikia miku’eiya-

kai waniu teiwari hamatia Paritsika.
[Then that Santiago got very angry, that Paritsika, they say, that mestizo
just answered Paritsika.]

Entonces, manari niuyeha’ani ‘ana waniu kaniutsekieni Tanana. ‘ena me

nawaxawa pai’i, ‘ena me Reu’unaxi ri mana me ‘atihuti, mana ‘atimieti
niutsekieni, mana xuriya, neutaxiriexiani muwa, muwa nehakuwie ki
mamakatsie.
[Then, there then at that time they say he got angry, stabbing Tanana
(Jesucristo). Here he was knifed then, here in Reu’unaxi falling flat lying
there, falling flat stabbed, bleeding there, hanging there, tied up there by
his hands.]

catarino carrillo: When he was stabbed there, he fell there on

the ground. Then from there pure mines came out from the blood of
that santito. . . . Then there are tourists working there, I don’t remember
very well. They made coins there, reales [a Spanish and Independence
era unit equal to one eighth of a peso], Real de Catorce.

Now, a museum ethnographer summarizes:

Blood came out of the . . . xaturi [Jesucristo]. Here the earth sank. From
here they arrive in Wirikuta, where Kauyumarie together with Maxa-
kwaxi, Tunuwame, and Tseriekame stay. In this place there are some
stones that they call gold and serve to make coins. Kauyumarie gath-
ered those stones, took them to Mexico City and there in Mexico City
they made coins, money, and the eagle on the coin.

What stands out here is the equivalence between sacrifice, wealth, and
the roles of foreign observers at the place that is most identified with the
emergence of the sun. These themes were already indicated in the earlier

202 liffman
account of an eagle on a nopal becoming the image on the national cur-
rency, but here they receive their most dramatic treatment. The associa-
tion of sacrifice and economic value comes out even clearer in a subse-
quent discussion.12

c atari n o c a rri l l o : So Kauyumarie left the money in Mexico

City so that people could buy things. From Mexico City, Kauyumarie
returned to Wirikuta where there remained a mountain called Tamatsi
Kauyumarie Muyewe together with the santitos [one of these being the
patron saint of the community of study, San Andrés].13

josé aguil ar: For that reason, we go each year to make a pilgrim-
age to Wirikuta. There our god remained. There they all are, including
those that are in San Andrés. The food of the divine ancestors or their
heart changed into peyote. . . . For that reason there is peyote, and the
mestizo stayed in Mexico City so that he could make everything that
Kauyumarie cannot make. The mestizo was smarter. . . .
No, well because Santiago was now on bad terms with the other
companion, he separated there. Now he came along the whole river
[the Río Grande de Chapalagana]. He passed there behind San Andrés
until arriving there, where they call it Santiago [Ixcuintla, on the Pacific
coast]. That santito has a lot of money; he’s very rich. Tobacco, every-
thing, corn; he has beans, amaranth. There we go to the coast to work.
The money we earn, it stays there [ironic laughter erupts all around].

In sum, the sacred historical narratives described above trace the axis of
power that leads inexorably southwest from Spain to the ancestors’ point
of arrival in Monterrey through Wirikuta and Mexico City; then north-
west to Aguascalientes and Huejuquilla (Tatuwani Hapuripa), the Sierra
Huichol, the Pacific lowlands; and finally back southeast to Lake Chapala
(Xapawiyemeta) and Guadalajara. On this trek, Huichols displace — or
rather, emplace — the uncontrollable violence of mestizo domination and
capitalist exploitation into an articulated series of sacred places, a trans-
national circuit of value. They reproduce this circuit through a ritually
mediated sacrificial violence normally under their control. In this vast
scheme of territorialization, Huichols inhabit the geographical center and

Huichol Histories and Territorial Claims 203

the narrative endpoint, but what Lomnitz calls the “‘horizon of coercion’
on which the social contract rests” is never far from view.14
Miguel Bartolomé, a theorist of Indigenous movements in Latin Amer-
ica, rightly points out that many analyses of such movements focus on
specific causes and goals but overlook what he calls their “processes of
constructing nationality . . . the quest to constitute collective subjects that
appeal to a shared social identity based on their own or an appropriated
cultural tradition. . . . [T]hey attempt to relate themselves on egalitarian
terms with the other cultural groups that form part of the same state. . . .
[M]obilizations . . . attempt for the ethnocultural communities to config-
ure themselves as political subjects without this implying the necessary
construction of their own state apparatus.”15
But we have seen that Huichols do not seem to concede that they are
a nation of people on an egalitarian footing with the other peoples of
Mexico or even the very states that have constituted their principal po-
litical interlocutors. Instead, in the texts surveyed here, Huichols claim
to be intrinsic to the constitution of the technologically and economi-
cally more-advanced mestizo people and the nation-state itself. They do
this by providing their own ancestral shadow state in the desert with the
sacrificial images and blood that in Huichol ritual are necessary for the
propagation of all value. That blood is embodied in the gold appropri-
ated by Santiago but also in the peyote that contains the knowledge still
controlled by Wixarika ceremonial experts.
We might also note that, as Indians in a nation-state profoundly in-
debted to an indigenista imaginary for its ideological coherence, Huichols’
mythological narrative is quite literally correct when it identifies them as
a virtual caste of legitimizers and value creators, as well as blood givers. 16
Moreover, the genre of discourse glimpsed here is far from unique to Hui-
chols and has been widely reported in central Mesoamerica and the An-
des as “wealth narratives.”17 We might find comparable stances with deep
roots in the ideological repertoires of many Indigenous peoples who have
been facing off with states — and reappropriating each other in different
kinds of supposedly reciprocal exchanges — for a very long time now.
Indeed, as Lomnitz has pointed out and as the betrayal depicted in
the two histories examined here also shows, the roots of such forms of
exchange are often entangled with violent appropriations of Indigenous

204 liffman
lives and resources.18 First, the Indigenous people give a gift of symbolic
value to the state. Then, the state reciprocates by issuing an ever-unful-
filled debt that is inherited over generations in the form of disputed land
titles. These titles only partially recognize the legitimacy of the Indigenous
territoriality that preceded and indeed provided the material basis of that
state. The parallel between the culture hero Kauyumarie in the Huichol
histories and Lomnitz’s key example of Juan Preciado, the betrayed son
of the revolutionary boss Pedro Páramo (in turn, a twin of the Mephis-
tophe-lean Teiwari Miyuawi), in Juan Rulfo’s landmark 1955 novel Pedro
Páramo is striking. All that the Indians inherit is the unpaid debt of their
land, thus setting off an unending series of claims and negotiations for
reciprocity for their original “gift” of symbolic legitimacy (to say nothing
of material resources). The hypocrisy of exchanging flawed documents
for primordial legitimacy in the first history is foregrounded in the sec-
ond one when Santiago, the leader of the Spanish santos whom the deer-
person Kauyumarie guided throughout the national territory, later mur-
ders his follower Tayau-Jesucristo in order to appropriate a second form
of value: gold. It is both classes of unpaid debt that Huichols would seem
to be trying to redress when they design museum exhibits.

Museums
How then do Huichols represent their primordial claim to territory and
cultural capital in museums that are predicated on incorporating Native
history into a multicultural national narrative when the Indians consider
the nation to depend on them instead? I am concerned with two national
museums: the Museo Nacional de Antropología in Mexico City and the
National Museum of the American Indian in Washington dc. What Hui-
chols do there cannot be understood without considering what they have
done simultaneously in their schools, the agrarian courts, and the regional
political arena. In these and other seemingly unrelated domains Huichols
and their allies have developed an anthropology that emphasizes cultural
integrity, territorial extension, and continuity in archaeological and his-
torical time for diverse, sometimes antagonistic publics.19 These cultural,
territorial, and historical claims in addition to commercial ones tied to
Huichol ethnic art — another set of representations of sacred history — are
linked by the more fundamental claim of ceremonial connection to the

Huichol Histories and Territorial Claims 205

landscape.20 All these performatively engendered indigeneities converge
in Huichol representations in national-museum spaces.21
That is, the nmai has provided a space for Huichols to connect art, rit-
ual symbolism, and sacred-history narratives to a series of land claims in
the courts, which began in the 1930s under the postrevolutionary agrarian
reform.22 With so many performative precedents, it should have come as
no surprise that the community curators Catarino Carrillo and José Cay-
etano, who we just heard in the preceding interview transcripts, were so
adept at visually representing their territoriality to a global audience in a
country they had never visited until they arrived at the nmai. In design
sessions and surveys of the museum’s collections, they conceived the ex-
hibition as a total representation of kiekari as a cosmological territory.
In their thirty-square-meter end of the Our Peoples gallery, Charles
Sanders Peirce’s figure of iconicity (formal resemblance) and the classi-
cal trope of synecdoche (hierarchical metonymy) connect the objects on
display to the kiekari in terms of their relative placement in the circular
space, the directional color symbolism of the display cases, and the ex-
plicit narrative of the panels. In order to translate these figures and tropes,
first enacted in rituals at domestic ceremonial patios and regional temples
(tukite), into a museum context, they made them less performative and
more denotative. Indeed, the performative aspects were displaced from
the exhibit to other parts of the museum complex. Still, by undertaking
this translation, Carrillo and Cayetano condensed 90,000 square kilome-
ters — an area 300 million times larger than the space that was utilized in
the exhibit. In short, despite being displaced to an exotic national space,
the nmai exhibit is more than a disembodied narrative because its very
design is like a hyper-representational version of a Native temple: a per-
formative space for revalidating territoriality, starting from the very site
of the performance. Huichols have struggled for a long time in order that
their cosmological sense of cultural geography and their claims for land
ownership and cultural rights could be represented in so many venues
across so much space.
One reason for this expansion of performative venues is the emer-
gence of pan-hemispheric Indigenousness since the 1980s, a multicul-
tural agenda which the nmai explicitly embodies. Huichols — including
the very community curators with whom I worked — are also active inter-

206 liffman
locutors in the Mexican pan-Indian movement that burgeoned after the
Chiapas neo-Zapatista rebellion of 1994. The designation of Carrillo and
Cayetano’s village of Bancos de San Hipólito, Durango, and the 10,000
hectares of land surrounding it as a comunidad autónoma is integral to
that hemispheric process as well. Yet the Huichol exhibit at the nmai fore-
grounds the particularity rather than the universality of their culture and
history — especially their brand of spatial encompassment — at the same
time that it identifies Huichol territoriality with the agrarian problems
shared with other Mexican peasants. James Clifford famously summed
up these and other emerging functions of the museum as a “contact zone”
when he wrote, “In this new, hybrid context the museum becomes a cul-
tural center and a site of storytelling, of Indigenous history, and of ongo-
ing tribal politics. It is also caught up with Fourth World tribal circuits,
with ‘cultural tourism’ by natives and whites, and with commercial tour-
ism at regional, national and international levels.”23
In this final section of the chapter, we see how three of the aforemen-
tioned domains of cultural practice — ritual performance, legal strategies,
and commercial artistic production — build on the sacred precedents that
have been recounted in the preceding sections and inform each other.
There is a more specific relationship between museums, the courts, and
the market as institutional venues where Huichols make claims about
their relationship to territory: the anthropological representations they
prepare for land claims in the courts and the cultural claims in their art
emphasize the ritual and symbolic aspects of their territoriality, whereas
the anthropology they present in museums shifts the focus to more spe-
cifically legal concerns with constitutional issues and land boundaries. At
the same time, they appropriate museum spaces for their own, nonpublic
ritual ends.24
However, in terms of political context, the very existence of this eth-
nography reflects more than the emergence of pan-Indianism. A flood-
tide of globalizing economic and legal reforms to peasant and Indigenous
peoples’ relationship to the land throughout Latin America and beyond
can be seen as its doppelgänger. That is, in 1992 the neoliberal govern-
ment of Carlos Salinas de Gortari was engaging in a paradoxical pair-
ing of institutional practices. It coupled constitutional amendments that
terminated the revolutionary legacy of land reform (Article 27) and ex-

Huichol Histories and Territorial Claims 207

panded the cultural and territorial rights of Indians (Article 4). The first
amendment paved the way for the North American Free Trade Agree-
ment (nafta), which has devastated the rural subsistence economy; the
second made Mexico’s signing of Convention 169 of the International La-
bor Organization (ilo) on the rights of Indigenous peoples into national
law, at least in principle. Since then, Indigenous peoples (but not most
mestizo peasants, for whom new claims are foreclosed) have been able
to present claims in court for land restitution, usufruct, and temporary
access, based on their usos y costumbres, or traditional cultural practices.
Huichols in particular have made a sustained effort (both in the Mexi-
can courts and in Geneva, when they appeal legal reverses to the ilo it-
self) to introduce their own history and anthropology of ancestral places,
ritual hunting and gathering, ceremonial organization, and kinship links
across officially recognized community and state boundaries. These ar-
guments form part of claims for both outright ownership of land in the
Sierra Madre where they live and seasonal access to sacred places in the
vast region surrounding the Sierra.25 Therefore even as their survival as
campesinos was becoming more precarious, Huichol claims for land and
autonomy connected traditional forms of territorialization to a growing
sense of ethnic identity with other indios and to a codified set of practices
and customs recognized by the state.
This new legal anthropology has helped win official recognition (if
not full-fledged protection) of hunting and gathering practices over 750
square kilometers in the Wirikuta desert of San Luis Potosí that Huichols
visit on arduous ceremonial treks from their temples in the Sierra (see fig.
8).26 It has also contributed to the outright restitution of over 200 square
kilometers of invaded lands in the Sierra that Huichols had inhabited
until they were violently displaced during the later phases of the Mexi-
can Revolution. These legal initiatives situate Huichols in the vanguard
of Mexican Indigenous sovereignty claims.
As demonstrated earlier, commensurate with the size of the 90,000-
square-kilometer kiekari, Huichols frame their demands for limited sov-
ereignty over its ancestral sites in even more encompassing mythical-
historical narratives about Huichol ancestors’ primordial role in creating
a big part of the national space when the santos arrived on the Gulf coast
during the Aztec era. More important, as I also pointed out earlier, Hui-

208 liffman
chol sovereignty depends on undertaking ritualized hunting and gath-
ering throughout this vast region, leaving offerings for the land’s divine
owners and then “registering” the cycle in rituals back in the Sierra at the
temples (tukite) that are near their homes, in order to revalidate cultural
land rights.27 In some key respects their museum experience extended
this logic to a new institutional domain and an even broader geographi-
cal scale, but they faced resistance.
That is, the nmai’s official mission strikes a precarious balance between
cultural conservatism and social change: “The National Museum of the
American Indian is committed to advancing knowledge and understand-
ing of the Native cultures of the Western Hemisphere, past, present, and
future, through partnership with Native people and others. The museum
works to support the continuance of culture, traditional values, and transi-
tions in contemporary Native life.”28 This “continuance” is achieved in part
by creating a venue for a multicultural identity politics of Indigenousness

8. Tukipa [temple] in Tuapurie (Santa Catarina Cuexcomatitlán), an architectonic

representation of the ceremonial territory called kiekari and a prototype of their
museum exhibitions. Photograph by Carl Lumholtz, ca. 1898. Reproduced by per-
mission of the American Museum of Natural History.

Huichol Histories and Territorial Claims 209

based on shared, sacred, universal meanings of ceremonial connection
to ancestral practices, a program which emphasizes cultural form over
context. The Huichols sought to shift this emphasis by introducing into
the exhibit a key land map that figures as a copy of the primordial titles.
They also insisted on text panels that situate their history in the metanar-
rative of the Mexican Revolution. They specifically sought to have these
panels describe the violent displacement of the Huichols of Bancos de San
Hipólito from their historical lands and their ongoing legal battle with
non-Indigenous peasants from San Lucas de Jalpa, Durango — a kind of
museological agrarianism.
This emphasis on representing communal land struggle in museums
resembles the widespread insistence by Mexican Indigenous community
museums (which Huichols lack, however) on drawing attention to “the
lineage between cultural patrimony, collective identity, and community
survival.”29 While community museums may promote historical memory
and the revitalization of traditional cultural practices among local people
more directly than can a global project (like the nmai), they also share
with larger museums the challenge of comprehensively representing local
values and voices against a backdrop of factional politics and conflicting
economic interests.30
To address what might seem to be another contradiction at the nmai,
community curators José Cayetano and Catarino Carrillo had no diffi-
culty combining their vision of museum display with claims on the os-
tensibly separate matter of commercial space in the museum. As Clifford
observed in the “contact zones” passage quoted above, Indigenous people
commonly conflate museology, politics, and commerce. Specifically, when
museum curators asked Cayetano and Carrillo what they considered the
chief goals of their exhibit to be, they replied that they wanted people to
understand that there could be no sacred maize without land on which to
grow it and (to the polite discomfort of some of those present) that they
wanted to enhance sales of their people’s art in the museum. However,
the hybrid declaration of goals should not seem unreasonable consider-
ing Huichols’ history of marketing ethnic art with a sacred aura, the pro-
portion of nmai floor space dedicated to commercial ends, and the per-
centage of museum funding derived from U.S. tribal gaming operations,
even if it may have seemed literally out of place at the moment.

210 liffman
 The compatibility of the market economy with Huichol ceremonial ter-
ritoriality in a museum context had already emerged during the design of
the National Museum of Anthropology in Mexico City in 1962 through
1964. At that time, chief museologist Alfonso Soto Soria had commis-
sioned Huichols to make a statue of their fertility ancestor Takutsi Nakawe
and other “ídolos” (idols). One Huichol brought him a Nakawe, saying
he had found it in a cave, where it would have fulfilled a sacred function
since caves are burial sites and portals to the underworld. Soto Soria re-
lates that the Huichol explained to him that he had buried money to com-
pensate for appropriating the figure and later replaced it with another idol,
presumably of his own manufacture. “La diosa había cambiado de sitio y
siguió siendo su diosa” (The goddess had changed places and continued
being their goddess), comments Soto Soria, and he claims that Huichols
continue to treat her as one in the museum.31 This account either ratio-
nalizes museum acquisition practices or reflects the profound materiality
of Huichol ceremonial practice in its attempt to encompass commodifi-
cation, or both.32 In addition, I hope the other evidence in this chapter
now makes it clear that art is only the latest in a deep history of sacralized
commercial exchanges tied to the original violence of ethnic relations and
to sacrificial hunting and trading in western Mexico.

Returning to the paradox signaled at the outset of the previous section,

the nmai’s multicultural mandate to enact a new mode of participation
and advocacy that gives Indigenous people control of exhibitions about
themselves led Huichol ceremonial experts to insist on augmenting the
museum’s homogenizing approach to Indian ceremonialism with both
art-business savvy and just the kind of peasant agrarian history and ar-
tifacts that they insist on enhancing with ceremonial references in the
courts.33 The Huichols found elements from deep within their tradition
to prepare themselves for this encounter; to lend a greater sense of sover-
eignty to their museological and legal collaborations; and to integrate the
commercial, cultural, and political dimensions of those collaborations.
To the degree Huichols have been successful in projecting this vision in
their exhibit, one must take a nuanced rather than black-and-white view
of the (in)capacity of “national minority museums” to overcome the oxy-
moron built into that very category.

Huichol Histories and Territorial Claims 211

 A second seeming paradox is that Mexican agrarian courts have not yet
fully recognized the implications of the federal government’s adherence
to ilo Convention 169 in the administration of rural justice. At the same
time in Washington, despite strong support from the curators, not all the
nmai design staff immediately recognized much appeal in incorporating
a text panel that describes events that are not entirely Indigenous, like
the Porfirio Díaz dictatorship’s disentailment of communal landholdings
and the resulting 1910 revolution or the 1958 Plano Provisional Agrario of
San Andrés Cohamiata, a monochromatic 1:250,000-scale, agrarian plat
map. Yet such artifacts have crucial significance to Huichols since they
effectively represent what they got in exchange for the tepari they gave to
the Aztecs. This map in particular closely reflects the ritually sanctioned,
eighteenth-century title boundaries of a landscape that is nearly twice as
large as the 750 square kilometers that the federal government currently
recognizes as a comunidad indígena confined to the municipio of Mezqui-
tic, Jalisco.34
Despite the historical and cultural depth entailed in this ordinary-look-
ing government blueprint, design-staff members objected that old land
maps did not embody “exhibition values” in the way that aesthetically
magnetic, ritual objects do and that panels with historic context threat-
ened to exceed strict word limits. Both of these constraints seem to be
general policy issues at the Smithsonian museums. Nevertheless, the mu-
seum honored its mandate, and the Huichol exhibit included a panel on
the history of Indigenous agrarian struggle in Mexico and a shrunken
reproduction of the map. Albeit only partially successful, these negotia-
tions over content and form resulted in a museum display that reflects a
new level of Mexican Indigenous agency in public representations of their
identity and history.35 The Huichol representation of their identity is only
the second half of the story. This is because their identity initially derives
from their primordial function as shamans and ceremonial legitimators
who resolve the identities of others. This dialogical grounding explains
why Huichols insist on depicting land titles and other material conditions
of possibility in a government museum — the other side of the bargain that
was struck when Kauyumarie presented the Aztecs with their symbol of
sovereignty.
Not only did Huichols bring historical narratives and documents

212 liffman
substantiating their territorial claims to the museum, they also brought
their ritual practice of territorialization. To consecrate their work at the
nmai Cultural Resources Center in Suitland, Maryland, the two ceremo-
nial experts conducted a brief ritual at the end of which a large candle
was interred at the edge of the center’s outdoor fire pit. Similarly, cura-
tor Ann McMullen recalls that “Catarino and José Cayetano also con-
secrated the nmai Mall building site on September 20, 2004 by plant-
ing a candle studded with several dollars in U.S. quarters, many ribbons
. . . sticks made into a cross and quarters applied to it with beeswax, then
the whole wrapped in ribbons toward the eastern edge of the Mall prop-
erty and near the edge of the pond. Perhaps they realized that the exhibit
might not be permanent, but the candle — as planted — would stay.”36
Historically, such gifts to the ancestral owners of the land consecrate
land boundaries that are deemed to be “corners of the world.”37 They rep-
licate the basic architectonics of the family ceremonial patio and the tem-
ple at the level of regional — and in this case transnational — geography. In
this sense the nmai community curators performatively expanded their
territory even beyond the already vast 90,000 square kilometers in west-
ern Mexico that they call takiekari (“our homeland”) in a modality that
is simultaneously ritual and political. In the age of globalized, multicul-
tural Indigenousness, takiekari vaults the border fence even as Indians
and other peasants die trying to cross the northern desert.

Notes
My thanks to Dr. Susan Sleeper-Smith, the American Indian Studies Consortium,
the staff of the Newberry Library, and the University of Nebraska Press for the
opportunity to present this essay. The first part of this essay draws on a paper pre-
sented at the American Anthropological Association meetings in 2003, and the
last part draws on a recent article in Museum Anthropology. I also gratefully ac-
knowledge the support received from the National Museum of the American
Indian, in particular from the curator of the Wixarika Our Peoples exhibit, Dr.
Ann McMullen, who initially invited me to participate in its construction in 2002.
The collegial assistance of Dr. Johannes Neurath of the Subdirección de Etnología
of the Museo Nacional de Antropología in this research and his perspective on
Mexican ethnology have been invaluable as well. Also, my colleague Laura Roush
made valuable editorial comments. More generally, I want to express my gratitude

Huichol Histories and Territorial Claims 213

 to the Centro de Estudios Antropológicos of the Colegio de Michoacán for its sup-
port of my research on Mexican regional and national museums and to those
people in Tateikie, San Andrés Cohamiata, who generously included me in their
dialogue.
1. Paul Liffman, “Gourdvines, Fires, and Wixárika Territoriality,” in “Ritual and His-
torical Territoriality of the Náyari and Wixárika Peoples,” ed. Philip Coyle and
Paul Liffman, special issue, Journal of the Southwest 42, no. 1 (2000): 129–66.
2. Claudio Lomnitz, “Sobre reciprocidad negativa/On Negative Reciprocity,” Revista
de Antropología Social 14 (2005): 311–39.
3. Charles L. Briggs, “The Politics of Discursive Authority in Research on the ‘Inven-
tion of Tradition,’” Cultural Anthropology 11, no. 4 (1996): 435–69; and Charles
L. Briggs, “Theorizing Modernity Conspiratorially: Science, Scale, and the Politi-
cal Economy of Public Discourse in Explanations of a Cholera Epidemic,” Ameri-
can Ethnologist 31, no. 2 (2004): 163–86.
4. Cosmovision is an expanded sense of “worldview” common in the Mesoamerican
literature. Johannes Neurath, Las Fiestas de la Casa Grande: Procesos Rituales, Cos-
movisión y Estructura Social en una Comunidad Huichola (Mexico City: Insti-
tuto Nacional de Anthropología e Historia; Guadalajara: Universidad de Guada-
lajara, 2002).
5. Marina Anguiano Fernández, “El Cambio de Varas entre los Huicholes de San
Andrés Cohamiata, Jalisco,” Anales de Antropología 11 (1974): 169–88.
6. In another version, a mestizo took a photograph of the serpent-and-eagle tepari,
and it is placed on the Mexican national flag. Huichol ceremonial experts, inter-
view by nmai staff and consultants, May 2001, interview mx-01:5B, transcript,
nmai. In a third version, the deer-person Kauyumarie found the flag at Xapawi-
yeme, an island in Lake Chapala identified as the southern cardinal point of
Huichol sacred territory, before taking it to the island of Tenochtitlan, upon which
Mexico City was built, where a mestizo took a photo of it. Huichol ceremonial
experts, interview by nmai staff and consultants, October 2002, interview dc.10/
02, tape, nmai; Huichol ceremonial experts, interview by nmai staff and consul-
tants, May 2001, interview tape 7.72, transcript, nmai.
7. Johannes Neurath, “Lluvia del Desierto: el Culto a los Ancestros, los Ritos Agrí-
colas y la Dinámica Étnica de los Huicholes Tiapuritari,” in Cosmovisión, Ritual
e Identidad de los Pueblos Indígenas de México, ed. Johanna Broda and Félix Báez-
Jorge (Mexico City: Consejo Nacional para la Cultura y Las Artes / Fondo de
Cultura Económica, 2001), 485–526; and Johannes Neurath, “El doble Personaje
del Planeta Venus en las Religiones Indígenas del Gran Nayar: Mitología, Ritual
Agrícola y Sacrificio,” Journal de la Société des Américanistes 90–91 (2004): 93–
118.
8. Robert Mowry Zingg, Report of the Mr. and Mrs. Henry Pfeiffer Expedition for
Huichol Ethnography: The Huichols, Primitive Artists (sponsored by the Depart-

214 liffman
 ment of Anthropology of the University of Chicago and the Laboratory of An-
thropology, Santa Fe, New Mexico, 1938; repr., Millwood ny: Kraus Reprint, 1977);
and Robert Mowry Zingg, Huichol Mythology, ed. Jay C. Fikes, Phil C. Weigand,
and Acelia García de Weigand (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2004).
9. Miguel Bartolomé, “Movimientos Indios en América Latina: Los Nuevos Pro-
cesos de Construcción Nacionalitaria,” Desacatos: Revista de Antropología Social
10 (Autumn–Winter 2003) 167–80.
10. For more on this see, Neurath, “Lluvia del Desierto”; and Neurath, “El doble Per-
sonaje del Planeta Venus en las Religiones Indígenas del Gran Nayar.”
11. Huichol ceremonial experts, interview by nmai staff and consultants, May 2001,
interview tape 5A:12, transcript, nmai. These taped interviews were conducted in
Mexico and at the nmai. They included Huichol ceremonial experts and nmai
staff and consultants. A native speaking Huichol translator, the anthropologist
Héctor Medina, and the author subsequently produced the transcripts and writ-
ten translations.
12. Huichol ceremonial experts, interview by nmai staff and consultants, October
2002, interview dc-10/2002, tape, nmai; and Huichol ceremonial experts, in-
terview by nmai staff and consultants, March–April 2002, interview tape 5:885-
920, transcript, nmai.
13. Huichol ceremonial experts, interview by nmai staff and consultants, May 2001,
interview tape 5b:14, transcript, nmai.
14. Lomnitz, “Sobre reciprocidad negativa,” 325.
15. Bartolomé, “Movimientos Indios en América Latina,” 150–51. Emphasis in the
original, translation mine.
16. Louis Dumont, Homo Hierarchicus: The Caste System and Its Implications, trans.
Mark Sainsbury (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1974).
17. See for example Michael Taussig, The Devil and Commodity Fetishism in South
America (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1980).
18. Lomnitz, “Sobre reciprocidad negativa.”
19. See by way of comparison Joanne Rappaport, The Politics of Memory: Native His-
torical Interpretation in the Colombian Andes (1990; repr., Durham nc: Duke Uni-
versity Press, 1998); and Haunani-Kay Trask, From a Native Daughter: Colonial-
ism and Sovereignty in Hawai’i (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1999).
20. See by way of comparison the following works by Liffman and Myers: Paul Liff-
man, “Huichol Territory: Land Conflict and Cultural Representation in West-
ern Mexico” (PhD diss., University of Chicago, 2002); Paul Liffman, “Huichol
Territoriality and the Mexican Nation,” unpublished manuscript; and Fred R. My-
ers, Painting Culture: The Making of an Aboriginal High Art (Durham nc: Duke
University Press, 2002).
21. See by way of comparison Robert Cantwell, Ethnomimesis: Folklife and the Rep-
resentation of Culture (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1993.

Huichol Histories and Territorial Claims 215

22. Beatriz Rojas, ed., Los Huicholes en la Historia (Mexico City: Centro de Estudios
Mexicanos y Centroamericanos; Zamora: El Colegio de Michoacán; Mexico City:
Instituto Nacional Indigenista, 1993).
23. James Clifford, Routes: Travel and Translation in the Late Twentieth Century (Cam-
bridge ma: Harvard University Press, 1997), 212.
24. I discovered this apparent paradox after working on two anthropologically based
projects. First was my 1990s anthropological consultation for the comunidad
indígena of San Andrés Cohamiata (a 750-square-kilometer expanse of mesas
and canyons in the Sierra Madre that is inhabited by some 5,000 Huichol people)
and the nongovernmental land rights organization Asociación Jalisciense de
Apoyo a los Grupos Indígenas on boundary litigation in the agrarian courts of Na-
yarit and Durango and the antechambers of the International Labor Organiza-
tion in Geneva. Later, in the early 2000s I was a consultant, translator, and in-
terpreter working with two San Andrés Huichol community curators on the
exhibit about their culture at the nmai. This exhibit became part of the permanent
gallery called Our Peoples: Giving Voice to Our Histories, which occupies roughly
half of the fourth floor of the nmai. It is one of three major permanent-exhibition
areas and includes a total of over thirty peoples from the Amazon to Alaska.
25. International Labor Organization, Report of the Committee Set Up to Examine
the Representation Alleging Non-observance by Mexico of the Indigenous and Tribal
Peoples Convention, 1989, 1998, no. 169, made under Article 24 of the ilo Constitu-
tion by the Trade Union Delegation, D-III-57, Section XI of the National
Trade Union of Education Workers (snte), Radio Education, regarding doc-
uments gb.270/16/3 and gb.272/7/2, htp://www.ilo.org/ilolex/cgi-lex/single.pl?query
=161998MEX169@ref&chspec=16 (accessed on 11/16/2007).
26. San Luis Potosí, Periódico Oficial, 57, special issue, September 22, 1994.
27. Liffman, “Gourdvines, Fires, and Wixárika Territoriality.”
28. nmai, “Mission,” http://www.nmai.si.edu/subpage.cfm?subpage=press&second
=mission, emphasis mine.
29. Patricia Pierce Erikson, “‘So My Children Can Stay in the Pueblo’: Indigenous Com-
munity Museums and Self-Determination in Oaxaca, Mexico,” Museum Anthro-
pology 20, no. 1 (1996): 40.
30. For a critique of the nmai’s combination of a community model with a museology
that incorporates more varied curatorial voices, see Amy Lonetree and Sonya Ata-
lay, eds., “Critical Engagements with the National Museum of the American In-
dian,” special issue, American Indian Quarterly 30, nos. 3–4 (2006). Lonetree bases
her distinction between these two models on Ruth B. Phillips, “Community Col-
laboration in Exhibitions,” introduction to Museums and Source Communities: A
Routledge Reader, ed. Laura L. Peers and Alison K. Brown (London: Routledge,
2003), 155–70.
31. Alfonso Soto Soria, interview with the author, Mexico City, December 14, 2006.

216 liffman
32. See by way of comparison Howard Morphy, “Sites of Persuasion: Yingapungapu
at the National Museum of Australia,” in Museum Frictions: Public Culture/Global
Transformations, ed. Ivan Karp and others 469–99. (Durham nc: Duke Univer-
sity Press, 2006), 480.
33. Even though conventional land claims focus precisely on subsistence issues, le-
gal discourse (obeying Western philosophical separations between matter and
spirit) often requires Indigenous people to background the possible economic
benefits that access to sacred parts of the geography might bring, as in the Hui-
chol access claim on the heavily touristed Isla de Alacranes in Lake Chapala.
Paul Liffman, “The Historia of Islands: New Huichol Territorial Claims to Ances-
tral Places,” in Heritage of Resistance: The Tarascan and Caxcan Territories in Tran-
sition, ed. Andrew Roth-Seneff and Robert V. Kemper (Tucson: University of Ari-
zona Press, forthcoming). However, for Huichols, as for premodern Europeans,
there is little hypocrisy in the idea of extending their lives through both ceremo-
nial offerings and remunerative activities on a pilgrimage trek. Karl Polanyi, The
Great Transformation (1944; repr., New York: Octagon Books, 1975).
34. The map was one of the few things, aside from a change of clothes, that Carrillo
and Cayetano brought with them on their trek from their mountain rancherías
in Bancos de San Hipólito, Durango, to the nmai’s Cultural Resources Center in
Suitland, Maryland.
35. Museum curators carried out this contextualization — the selection and placement
of Indigenous verbal texts in the spatial syntax of display cases; and the commu-
nity curators and anthropological consultants reviewed it before installation.
36. Ann McMullen, personal communication with author, Chicago, September 24,
2007.
37. See María de los Angeles Arcos García, “Las Velas Tateikietari . . . Invocando la
Lluvia y la Lucha de un Pueblo” (master’s thesis, Universidad Autónoma de Méx-
ico-Xochimilco, 1998).

Huichol Histories and Territorial Claims 217

8
The Construction of Native
Voice at the National Museum
of the American Indian
jennifer shannon

In September of 2004 the National Museum of the American Indian

(nmai) — the newest and last Smithsonian museum to be built on the
National Mall in Washington dc — presented its inaugural exhibitions to
the public. The nmai is described as, “the culmination of nearly 15 years
of planning and collaboration with tribal communities from across the
hemisphere.”1 According to Richard West, the founding director of the
nmai, “From the start, our new museum has been dedicated to a fresh
and, some would say, radically different approach to museum exhibitions.
To put it in the most basic way, we insist that the authentic Native voice
and perspective guide all our policies, including, of course, our exhibition
philosophy.”2 Therefore, it is not only “Native voice” that is being presented
by the museum, it is a more “authentic” representation. Similarly, Ruth
Phillips explains, “what collaborative exhibits seek, in contrast to those
they replace, are more accurate translations.”3
The quintessential collaboration of the nmai is its community-curated
exhibits, in which nmai staff members work closely with Native commu-
nities to develop the content of the galleries. Native community members
were most involved in the development of exhibit themes, exhibit label
text, and video interviews. This is evidenced in the exhibits through au-
thored text; for example, on general introductory panels, text is attributed
to Chicago cocurators as a group. For specific quotations, a person’s name
and his or her tribal affiliation are displayed (figure 9).
I would argue that the nmai’s identity resides in this collaborative pro-
cess and authored representations. It is the community curators’ faces

218
and words on the walls, their knowledge and consent to be on display,
that gives the museum its legitimization as a Native museum, one which
ethically presents Native voice. In essence, their contributions give what
many visitors seek: its “authenticity.”
In this paper, I address the construction of “Native voice” within the
nmai through a focus on “community curating” (or collaborative exhibit
making) museum representational strategies; and the changing relations
between the subjects and objects presented in museum exhibitions.4 There
are two moments represented in this account: the first part is based on an
essay that was written in 2003 in anticipation of the opening of the nmai,
while the latter portion is based on an essay that was written in reflection
two years after the museum opening, in 2006.
While I begin by examining evidence of Native voice in the exhibit text,
after conducting my fieldwork I shift to a form of evidence that was ex-
plicitly not in the text.5 In other words, I move from the construction of
Native voice as evidenced in material signs and toward an understanding
that it must also entail social commitment and advocacy.

Anticipation
In its rhetoric, the nmai promises innovations in exhibit technology
and ideology. One advertisement reads, “Any museum can invite you to
look. A great one changes the way you see.”6 In Native America Collected,
Margaret Dubin explains that “visitors need museums to validate their
own experiences, to fill in the gaps in their knowledge of the world, and
demonstrate proper ways of appreciating and understanding objects and
events.”7 One of the goals of the nmai is to fill in the gaps left by popu-
lar, inaccurate stereotypes of Native Americans through “authentic” rep-
resentations of Native peoples. A loaded word, authenticity is one of the
explicit promises of the museum.8
The construction of Native voice, and the nmai’s claim to authentic-
ity, is substantiated both implicitly and explicitly through the work of
uniquely embedded ethnographic text within the exhibit and the larger
structure of the museum itself. In other words, the use of ethnographic
evidence, specifically text derived from transcriptions of discourse, effects
and is presented as authentic and authoritative cultural representation.

The Construction of Native Voice 219

9. Part of the Chicago community exhibit panels in the nmai Our Lives gallery,
2004. Photo courtesy Jennifer Shannon.
Native Voice in the New Museum
In Museums, the Public, and Anthropology, Michael Ames asks, “Are mu-
seums or anthropology really necessary anymore?”9 The fact that Ames
posed this question as a chapter heading in what is now considered to be
a seminal work on the anthropology in museums and that it remained
as a sign of the times in his later, revised compilation illustrates the real
sense of unease in the discipline at that time.10 Issues of representation,
transparency, and authority in ethnography came under intense scru-
tiny in the 1980s, precipitating what has become known as the “crisis in
representation.”11 The sheer amount of published, reflexive materials on
the Smithsonian Institution by the Smithsonian regarding representation
and collection issues since 1990 shows a similar trend in the field of mu-
seum studies.12 It is during this time period, in 1989, that the Museum
of the American Indian was incorporated into the Smithsonian Institu-
tion as the nmai.
Ethnographic museums are seriously implicated by this critique or “cri-
sis,” as their main function is the representation of cultures or cultural
products.13 What, then, has been the museum response to this crisis? In
Reflections of a Cultural Broker: A View from the Smithsonian, Richard
Kurin provides a table entitled “What’s In, What’s Out” that offers some
general insights. For example, “collectors” become “stewards,” and “mono-
logue” becomes “multilogue.” However, in a list of some twenty-two mu-
seum features to be changed, the only one to remain the same, as an “in-
stitutional product,” was “authenticity.”14
Dubin suggests two specific responses that museums have made to the
crisis: historical revision and change in exhibition-making practices to
incorporate better communication between Natives and non-Natives.15
She explains, “Ideally, the new museology demands a total overhaul of
museum theory and practice. The primary goal is to open up space — dis-
cursive space as well as physical space — for indigenous objects to become
speaking subjects who voice their own ideas and continue to (or even seize
control of) their own representations.”16 The rhetoric and methodology
of the nmai suggests that it is a quintessential “new museum”; its mission
statement focuses on “consultation, collaboration and cooperation with
Natives.”17 Furthermore, its Web site states that the nmai “empower[s]

The Construction of Native Voice 221

the Indian voice” and “actively strives to find new approaches to the
study and representation of the history, materials, and cultures of Native
peoples.”18
Based on this mission, the 2004 inaugural exhibition of the nmai in-
cluded three permanent galleries — Our Universes, Our Peoples, and Our
Lives — that each present eight communities reflecting on their own cos-
mologies, histories, and contemporary identities, respectively. The com-
munities are represented as localities, rather than cultures, which is another
response to the critiques of representation in cultural anthropology. For ex-
ample, rather than an exhibit about Inuit identity, it is about the identity of
the Inuit community of Igloolik, a town in the eastern Canadian Arctic.
In addition to addressing the crisis in representation, there are also
visitor expectations that museums, as public institutions, must consider.
They are expected to entertain and educate and to be authoritative and
aesthetically pleasing.19 These expectations invoke a number of differ-
ent knowledge practices that come together in the making of a museum
exhibit, including curatorial, design, marketing, and Native knowledge
practices. These might include such materials as transcribed text, light-
ing effects, visitor polls, or instructions for how to properly display a pipe.
It is the transcribed text, the ethnographic product of nmai curatorial
knowledge practices, on which I focus here through the examples of the
Our Lives gallery.

Accessing Native Voice through Community Curating

Community curating is the method through which the nmai constructs
“Native voice.” The Our Lives Native community cocurator committees
were organized in various ways, depending on the community’s prefer-
ences, and included between four and ten people. For example, the Amer-
ican Indian community of Chicago selected cocurators through nomi-
nation and election, a familiar process for them. For the Kalinago on the
Caribbean island of Dominica, the chief of the Carib Territory selected
the cocurator committee, making sure there was representation from each
hamlet; for both males and females; and with basket makers, farmers, po-
litical figures, and cultural leaders.
The process of community curating for Our Lives, and for the inaugu-
ral exhibitions in general, was unique in that the nmai curators spent a

222 shannon
significant amount of time in each Native community, rather than only
bringing the community members to the museum for consultation. There
were regular meetings between the nmai curators and the cocurator com-
mittees over the course of several years. For example, in Chicago, first
there was an introductory meeting to invite the Chicago American In-
dian community to participate in the exhibition.20 Once the community
agreed to participate, periodic meetings between the nmai staff and se-
lected cocurators began.
These cocurator meetings were recorded, and the dialogue from these
discussions as well as individual interviews with cocurators and other
community members became the text of the exhibit. This process of visit-
ing in the community, recording discourse, and talking with people about
their life experience is what I refer to as ethnographic practice. In the first
meetings, the nmai curator listened to the cocurators as they began to
formulate what it means to be a member of the American Indian commu-
nity of Chicago today — for instance, activities like powwows that bring
them together, community gathering places like the Anawim Center and
the American Indian Center, and the various ways in which they main-
tain their Indian identity in the midst of a large metropolis. The cocura-
tors’ emphasis was that the Chicago community was a multitribal and a
widely diverse group of people. The nmai curator listened and returned to
the community with themes that represented the various issues that were
discussed. The cocurators then helped to further define these themes.
Then the cocurators selected objects from within the nmai collection
as well as from their own community to represent these themes. The coc-
urators were later visited by a design team contracted by the nmai and
discussed their visions for presentation and reviewed the design team’s
sketches and layouts of the exhibit. An nmai media team also visited the
community later in the process, interviewing community members on
video and recording important events during the week they were there,
such as a powwow and a graduation ceremony. At each stage, people
working on the exhibit came to the community to talk with community
members, get a sense of place, and better represent them in the museum.
Once there was agreement on the main themes of the exhibit, cocurators
selected (or the nmai curator commissioned) illustrative objects for the
display.

The Construction of Native Voice 223

Native Voice and the Shift to Narrative
The changing relations between subjects and objects within museums
and an increasing incorporation of ethnographic text and practice reveal
what I see as a shift in focus from objects to subjects and a consequent
shift in the locus of authenticity. The Smithsonian’s original and continu-
ing mission, since the bequest of James Smithson in 1829, has been for the
“increase and diffusion of knowledge.” The original interpretation of this
mission was to record and display for posterity dying Indian cultures that
were becoming acculturated.21 These early displays, exemplified by an ex-
hibit labeled circa 1925 at the Museum of the American Indian, consisted
of objects that were grouped together by type in glass cases, or in what I
call object-to-object relations22 (figure 10). These kinds of displays were
closely tied to evolutionary and diffusionist theories in anthropology.
In the late nineteenth century, Franz Boas’s notion of cultural groups
and cultural relativism became influential in the field of anthropology.
This approach focused on how objects are used and included cultural con-
text (for example, through dioramas) to access the meaning of the object
according to the people from whom it originated. The culture-area con-
cept was thus developed at the Smithsonian as a means of classifying mu-
seum objects in order to better research and exhibit similarity and differ-
ence in the Smithsonian’s extensive collections.23 With this innovation in
classification, objects at the Smithsonian were situated in a cultural con-
text, in relation to subjects rather than simply to other objects, or what
I call an object-to-subject relation.24 In other words, the labels changed.
For example, the object no longer is (only) an Eskimo oil lamp made of
stone (and situated among similarly functioning objects), but it is (also)
a stone oil lamp made by the grandfather of A. Ivalu in 1895 and used in
the Return of the Sun Festival (and situated with clothing and items as-
sociated with that festival).
One example of a step further toward a Native point of view — though
still maintaining the object-to-subject relation, where the object remains
the focal point and is accompanied by a Native person’s narrative — is the
1991 All Roads Are Good exhibit at the nmai in New York. In this exhi-
bition, “twenty-three Native Americans from throughout the Western
Hemisphere — singers, storytellers, artists, elders, and scholars — were in-

224 shannon
 vited to select objects from the collections of the National Museum of the
American Indian . . . and talk about the reasons behind their choices.”25
Three years later, the nmai presented the exhibit Creation’s Journey,
which was described as one of the “most elaborate attempts at multi-
vocality to date,” presenting displays of each object accompanied by ex-
planatory texts grouped into the authorial categories of “art historian,”
“anthropologist,” and “Native.” It was a “curatorial experiment of monu-
mental scale” that was “in tune to the sensitive political environment as
well as the challenging postmodern aesthetic.”26 Jim Volkert, former head
of the nmai Exhibits Department, explains the experimental nature of this
exhibit:

the way that museums present information affects the way you perceive
it. . . . So, for example, we had three of those famous decoys from Ne-
vada. One was presented as if it were a piece of art. One was presented
. . . in the way that it was discovered in the cave, as a piece of archaeol-
ogy. And one was presented as if the duck, the decoy, were being used

10. View of First Floor East Hall, Museum of the American Indian/Heye Foundation,
155th and Broadway, New York ny, February 1956. Photo by Carmelo Guudagno.
Courtesy nmai Photo Archives. n28310.

Image masked. Please refer to the print version of the book to view this image.

The Construction of Native Voice 225

 floating in a creek, as a piece of natural history. And they were all set
right side by side, that same object, in three different displays. And so
you understood intuitively and immediately that the way the museum
presents something affects how you perceive it. It’s art, it’s natural his-
tory, it’s anthropology. . . . And so the point was not the supremacy of
a Native perspective, but it’s a piece that’s been missing. . . . And that’s
what this museum is about. [And after seeing this exhibit] you believed
the legitimacy of the Native voice.27

However, Dubin states that “the exhibit did not take into account the
needs and expectations of the museum-going public, which still sought
an authoritative experience.”28 It is in the interaction between the pub-
lic and the museum where the “new museology” is most likely to break
down. This is where the work of the museum, in response to the reflex-
ive turn, can fail.29
The nmai, as a “new museum,” is going to display what I would sug-
gest are subject-to-subject relations, particularly in the Our Lives gal-
lery.30 This gallery is much in line with the nmai Exhibition Master Plan
that was developed in 1995: “the museum intends for the exhibitions, for
the most part, to be idea-driven: that is, that the exhibits will tell a story
or communicate an idea, and the collections will be used to illustrate the
story or illuminate the idea. The danger in this approach is that by defini-
tion the objects are subordinate to the idea of the exhibit instead of being
the idea of the exhibit. This relegates the museum’s most unique resource
to a supporting role and may disappoint those visitors whose main goal
is to connect with the objects.”31 For example, the Native groups in the
Our Lives gallery are talking about themselves — their identities — what it
means to be Inuit in Igloolik, or Mohawk in Kahnawake. These are situ-
ated identities, reflected upon and conveyed through the Native-authored
text of the exhibit. It is about peoples’ relations to each other, about reflex-
ive subjects. The object, then, has become “illustration,” accompanying the
stories that Native people are telling about themselves. Unlike All Roads
Are Good, the selection of objects is now at the endpoint of the exhibit-
development process rather than at the beginning.
Therefore, there is a switch from evidence (and evidentiary claims) in
things to evidence in testimony (or what I have been referring to as eth-

226 shannon
nographic evidence).32 It does not matter that the seal skin pants were
created for the exhibit and never intended to be worn; the object is made
authentic by its author, by the authority of the subject, by the “Nativeness”
of the person who created it.33 It is the authenticity of subject rather than
the object that is now emphasized.

Embedded Representations
This authenticity of the subject is uniquely embedded in the nmai within
a concentric layering of signifiers that also indicate “Nativeness,” includ-
ing the museum institution itself. Although museum curators are moving
from modernist-authoritative to postmodernist-interrogative positions
as they attempt to erode the museum’s position of authority, museum
authority is not so easily undermined.34 By its very nature, it legitimizes
what it contains. Because it is a National Museum of the American Indian,
Native authority is inherent in the institution.
An example from William Fitzhugh at the National Museum of Natural
History illustrates the assumed authority of museums by the very nature
of their being institutions of public learning. Fitzhugh explains how the
simplistic and stereotyped image of the Eskimo, “has been created largely
through museum representation”35 (figure 11).
Fitzhugh goes on to say this is because visitors accept what is in the
museum as text, as truth — even when it is what he describes to be an ob-
viously outdated and underfunded exhibit.36 In 1997, at Fitzhugh’s sugges-
tion, a Native of Kodiak Island, Sven Haakanson, conducted a review of
the Eskimo exhibit. Haakanson concluded that the exhibit “does a won-
derful job of demonstrating the types of tools, clothing and ritual materi-
als. What the displays and text don’t do is teach who the ‘Eskimo’ peoples
really are. The visitors are taking the wrong information home, and this
continues the misunderstandings of who the northern peoples are.”37
The Our Lives exhibit, in contrast, is being constructed to address
exactly that: who Native people are. One way to illuminate how Native
voice is constructed and embedded to achieve this outcome is to examine
what Michael Lynch calls “localized praxis.”38 For instance, this concept
“examine[s] how an activity comes to identify itself as observation.”39 In
other words, how does the work of the curatorial staff and the Native com-
munity members come to be identified as, say, Native voice? I focus here

The Construction of Native Voice 227

on how ethnographic evidence, in the form of (entextualized) narrative,
comes to be seen as Native voice and authority in the Our Lives exhibit.
As a field researcher for the nmai in 2001, I worked with the Inuit com-
munity in Igloolik, Nunavut. I spent several one-to-two week visits with
the community, during which I spoke with Inuit of all ages, organized
cocurator workshops and youth presentations, and conducted one-on-one
interviews to facilitate community participation as we worked together to
develop the content for their exhibit. I tape-recorded all of the meetings
and interviews and then, upon returning to the nmai’s Cultural Resources
Center just outside of Washington dc, I transcribed the recordings.
Michael Silverstein and Greg Urban explain that the transcription of
oral discourse can be seen as the production of a “text-artifact with a
certain concreteness and manipulability”; they add parenthetically that
“Perhaps these text-artifactual properties are suggestive — and surely have
been suggestive — of museum specimens that can be transported back
from the field and evaluated for their authenticity and cultural-aesthetic

11. Closed but visible Polar Eskimo exhibit at the National Museum of Natural His-
tory, October 2004. Photo courtesy Jennifer Shannon.

228 shannon
authoritativeness.”40 This analogy rang especially true to me. In fact, it did
not seem like an analogy at all but rather an actual museum practice, for
the recordings and transcriptions I made are now considered to be part
of the nmai’s collection. Therefore, curators and fieldworkers collect dis-
course as well as objects.41 But this discourse is no longer considered only
an informational resource or reference for the curator to use in creating
text panels or describing objects — it is the text panel. Portions of the tran-
script are used, deliberately verbatim, to represent the Native voice in the
exhibit.
Once approved by a community’s cocurator committee, the Our Lives
curator and researchers assemble the text-artifacts and images of associ-
ated objects by theme into digital documents, complete with the dimen-
sions of objects and numbers of words per label, and send it to the ex-
hibit designers. It is important to remember that, while my account here
is centered on text, the exhibit is a three-dimensional rendering that in-
corporates all five senses in its final form.42 The role of technology and
its possibilities in exhibits are significant, particularly in producing such
effects as multivocality and multiple frames of reference. Therefore, the
designers re-embed, or animate, the text-artifacts in a new context that
can include not just text but also video, audio, projected winds and tem-
peratures, smells, and lighting changes. The designers manipulate the
objects and text-artifacts in space, their proximities and juxtaposition
contributing in new ways to the production of authentic representation
through the replication of forms.
Native voice is also embedded within a particular style of exhibit design
within the gallery that facilitates an implicit relatedness among exhibits
through the replication of form. In her discussion of the Women’s Infor-
mation Network newsletter in The Network Inside Out, Annelise Riles ex-
plains how a combination of textual information and graphics produced
the effect of having “what looked like heterogeneity at one glance” and
then “could be viewed as replication at the next.” 43 This “aesthetic of con-
trolled heterogeneity” can be seen in the distinctive forms taken by the
Chicago, Igloolik, and Kahnawake community exhibits, for example.44
These exhibits were distinct but at the same time were being grouped un-
der a particular thematic structure of Our Lives and contained compo-

The Construction of Native Voice 229

sitional similarities present in all eight community exhibits, such as text
panels, video screens, and photographs.45
While it is important to consider the inevitable cross-cultural com-
parisons that will occur among these eight community exhibits that are
juxtaposed within the gallery, it is equally essential to consider another
comparison that also inheres in this gallery’s form: the relationship be-
tween a Native community and its simulacrum, or “reality checking,” so
to speak.46 The comparison becomes not between likenesses but between
something “real,” out there, and its representation — between the com-
munity in Igloolik and the exhibit of Igloolik on the gallery floor. The
apparent match in this comparison is achieved at the nmai through the
representational strategies described above. The feeling that there is an
adequate match may be considered as an authentic visitor experience.
A more explicit comparison — and on a much grander scale — exists at
the level of the nmai’s curvilinear architecture in relation to other Na-
tional Mall museums (figure 12). There is a luxury in starting from the
ground up, in not having to create a “new museum” in an old space, where

12. Entrance of the nmai. Photo courtesy Jennifer Shannon.

230 shannon
exhibits can become “rooted in the architecture” of the museum.47 For,
as Kurin describes, “In the museum, categories of knowledge are carved
into the walls, chiseled in stone, and constructed with brick and mor-
tar.”48 The architectural nature of the museum, and of the exhibit, usually
creates certain limitations; but here, it provides new possibilities for rep-
resentational strategies. According to the nmai Web site, as a product of
collaborative engagement with Native communities, the “museum’s ar-
chitecture and landscape design represent a distinctly Native approach.”49
It is clear that the nmai has been deliberate about its form and presence
on the mall, which is dominated by buildings with classical architecture.
This contradiction is most notable in its juxtaposition to its next door
neighbor, the National Air and Space Museum, with its white walls and
box-like structure.

Preliminary Conclusions
As a new museum committed to a “new museology,” the nmai has been
deliberate about distinguishing itself as a Native place through new en-
gagements with and productions of authority, authenticity, representa-
tion, and Native voice in its inaugural exhibitions. It has shifted to a pri-
macy of evidence of authenticity in ethnographic or discursive text rather
than in objects or things. Representing subject-to-subject relations in
the exhibit through embedded ethnographic text is, I suggest, intended
to produce the effect of authority and authenticity of Native voice, or the
authentic subject. The content of the exhibit, because it is a product and
faithful entextualization of the authoritative subject, becomes authentic
representation. Furthermore, the exhibits are enclosed by a structure that
is described as a Native place. Because these moves are created in con-
sultation with Native peoples, and through “transparent” methods, they
are considered to be “authentic.” The making of authentic representation,
then, is a combination of form, content, and process that is perceived to
be uniquely “Native.” The nmai therefore constructs Native voice through
both implicit and explicit strategies of representation, replication, and
comparison.
If we consider the text-artifact as ethnographic evidence embedded
within the nmai, according to Silverstein and Urban, “Politics can be
seen, from this perspective, as the struggle to entextualize authoritatively,

The Construction of Native Voice 231

and hence, in one relevant move, to fix certain metadiscursive perspec-
tives on texts and discourse practices.”50 In other words, the nmai pro-
vides Native peoples with the means to take control of their own repre-
sentations through their participation in the textualization of their voices,
in the claim of authentic representation, and in the exhibiting of their
cultures.
In the nmai, as I have discussed in relation to the Our Lives gallery, the
demands of the critiques of representation, the museum, the visiting pub-
lic, and Native peoples appear to come together in a unique space and to
mutually reinforce each other. There is no doubt that what I have found
as evidence to produce these effects is a function of my attention to such
devices as rhetoric and text, but that is what has been available to date.
Only time would tell, as the museum opened in 2004, if the realization
of these potentials was possible.

Reflection
It has been a few years since the opening of the nmai.51 I was present at the
grand opening, the procession of over 20,000 Native people walking the
National Mall, on September 21, 2004. I was present at the first viewing of
the exhibits by the Our Lives community cocurators as well as for the first
reception by nmai staff of the reviews in the newspapers. In many ways,
as is common once ethnographic fieldwork is underway — and in a way
doubling the process at the nmai — my account now becomes peopled,
as did the exhibits, with the voices and perspectives of those involved in
the production of Native voice.

The Definition of Native Voice

Native Voice is a phrase that continues to appear throughout nmai writ-
ten materials, including past mission statements and current exhibit la-
bels. In the 2006 temporary exhibition about the Pacific Northwest Coast
entitled Listening to Our Ancestors, nmai staff attempted to be more
transparent about the community-curating process through a series of
panels at the end of the exhibit. One is labeled “Native Voice,” and it be-
gins with a quote by nmai director Rick West: “Native peoples possess
important and authoritative knowledge about themselves and their cul-
tures, past and present, and deserve to be at the museological table of in-

232 shannon
terpretation and representation.” The panel continues, “The photos and
text shown here provide a glimpse of our exhibition process and reveal
how and why the museum shares authority with indigenous people to
represent Native culture and history. . . . Exhibitions at the National Mu-
seum of the American Indian are developed in partnership with Native
people. This practice is based on the belief that indigenous people are best
able to teach others about themselves. Their understanding of who they
are and how they present themselves to the world is what the museum
calls ‘Native voice.’”
This exhibit panel seemed to answer the question I posed to many nmai
staff members at the time of the museum opening: what is Native voice?
As we discussed in 2004, it was never defined, nor was community cu-
rating ever described to prepare the visitors, or critics, for what they were
seeing in the exhibitions.
Through the process of community curating, Native voice was pro-
duced by committee and resulted in a unified, authoritative voice in each
exhibit, where community curators authored as a group each of the main
thematic sections of their exhibits. This discussion and consensus process
was not necessarily the original intention of the nmai staff, who in a De-
cember 2000 vetting session of the Our Lives project had anticipated an
atmosphere of “multivocality.” There were individual quotes in the exhib-
its, but they are mainly illustrations, not rebuttals or varied experiences,
of the main text panels.
When I first began my interviews with staff in 2004, around the time
of the opening, there was no consensus about what Native voice is: does
it mean Native perspective (and how do you go about accessing that) or
does it literally mean the voices of Native peoples (as it was interpreted
to be in the inaugural exhibitions, where the text on the walls represented
excerpts from recorded interviews and discussion among community cu-
rators). I asked nmai director Rick West for his thoughts on these defi-
nitions. He explained that curators have been “very disciplined about it.”
But with “some of the critique that’s come back about the exhibitions,” the
“temptation” may be to “make it more, if you will, in terms of exhibition
presentation, perspective rather than voice. I just want to make sure that
we understand, just as we did on the curatorial side to begin with, what
kinds of filters are being imposed and . . . what is the cost of that . . . [be-

The Construction of Native Voice 233

cause] the farther you get from the words that were actually used, assum-
ing that you were relying upon people who have capacity for expressing
themselves to begin with, the more at risk you are of altering meanings,
and changing meanings from the intention of the speaker.”52

Institutional Dynamics of Native Voice

As West’s comments intimate, there was an institutional divide at the
nmai: a curatorial side and an exhibitions side; each had different ideas
about the community-curating process and the criteria for evaluating the
success of exhibits. It seems the conflict between the Exhibits and Curato-
rial departments — and anyone working there readily acknowledges this
struggle has been going on for many years, as it often does in other mu-
seums — is that, in this particular case, they look to different constituen-
cies. The nmai mission statement lists two: “Native communities and the
non-Native public.”53
As one nmai staff member told me one afternoon,

I got the sense that Curatorial’s main constituency were the Native
communities, and they really at some level apparently — I’m not say-
ing this as fact — it seemed to me that sometimes that that was the only
constituency that they were particularly interested in. . . . And that the
museum content that they were acquiring was important content, and
that they had to sort of defend the interests of Native people. In some
ways, I tended to look at some people in Curatorial as like the Indian
agents — there seemed to me to be a kind of almost sort of paternal-
ism, you know, Indian people can’t take care of themselves so we have
to take care of them. I think the tension on the other side was that, you
know, we’re here to create exhibits and tell people about Native people
and the constituency for Exhibits was the public. And I think that di-
chotomy was very pronounced — again, this is very subjective, you need
to talk to other people about this.54

Generally, I think this is a fair assessment from someone working in a

public-oriented department.55 The curatorial staff worried about doing
things “the right way” and squarely faced and served Native communities
in its philosophy and practice to accomplish this, while the Exhibits and

234 shannon
Education departments were more consistently mindful and directed to-
ward doing appropriate “translation” for the museum-going public.
Under the direction of Craig Howe in the Curatorial Department in
1999, the curatorial staff was taught and internalized that success meant
Native community members would walk into their exhibit (and staff did
think of it as the community’s exhibit) and say, “this feels right.” And truly,
if that is the measure of success, then the Our Lives exhibits were greatly
successful. Community members with whom I have spoken do feel own-
ership over their exhibits, and they do recognize their ideas and words on
the walls. All of the community members with whom I have spoken have
expressed great pride and a sense of familiarity when they encountered
their space in the exhibition.
But there has been much criticism of the process within the nmai. One
program manager in a public-oriented department stated that community
curating “has value, but we went way too far in one direction . . . [and]
abdicated our responsibilities” to the information that visitors want and
the intellectual framing they need.56 Similarly, like many public-oriented
department members, the script writer–editor saw his job as bringing
“clarity” to the exhibit process, making it easier for the visitors to under-
stand the exhibits. He and I talked about how sometimes the cocurators
would choose not to provide content for exhibits in which the museum
staff was interested: “I felt we often acted as supplicants at times when
we should have provided direction [to communities in curating]. And I
don’t think that was helpful. . . . I think that’s probably heresy in Curato-
rial.”57 He discusses “paying the price” for just doing what the community
wants and adds that it is the exhibition team to which you should have
allegiance, not your department.
This common conception from outside the Curatorial Department —
that there is a “cabal” as one museum consultant put it in 2006 during a
discussion as to why the Curatorial Department needed to be “broken
up” — is ironic since the curators did not have a single meeting as a depart-
ment during the entire course of my fieldwork. Here, I think the public-
oriented department members misinterpreted what was going on: there
was not an allegiance among curatorial staff to their department, or per-
haps even to each other, but rather — and fiercely — to the Native commu-
nities and individuals with whom they worked.

The Construction of Native Voice 235

 One curator explained to me that the curators’ knowledge is key to de-
termining what is important and relevant in the “raw transcripts,” which
“included a lot of sensitive information and a lot of irrelevant informa-
tion.” Knowing the difference was a curator’s significant contribution,
whereas others who were not in direct contact with communities “had
no idea how the text and the things that were in the transcripts actually
related to the rest of the exhibition as it had been developed so far.”58 To
this curator, a request to turn over script-writing duties, “ran the risk of
sort of just opening up the transcripts” and potentially displaying parts of
conversations that community curators did not want in a public exhibit:

Curatorial stands in a unique face-to-face position with the commu-

nity, and being in the best position to actually, in some cases, interpret
the feeling of the community when there’s no possibility of going back
and asking every single question. That somebody’s got to take responsi-
bility for that. And it seemed at that point that at that time, members
of Curatorial, specifically the lead curators, were the only ones who
recognized that it was a responsibility. And it was what we owed com-
munities. . . . That you couldn’t understand communities and what
they wanted for their exhibits solely by what was recorded on paper,
what was in the transcripts. . . . Part of it had to do with the develop-
ment of personal relationships and feelings of community, of having
heard them, of having heard their often emotional reactions to what
they’re talking about.59

This curator’s comments are representative of the Curatorial Depart-

ment’s ethos in general, which includes a desire to follow community
wishes, at times against other interests and actors within the museum
bureaucracy, and a desire to shepherd the exhibit content that was devel-
oped through an intimate partnership with Native community members
during the exhibit development process. In this process, content could
be transformed by multiple other experts through script editing, the jux-
taposition of images or objects, and use of colors and textual strategies of
emphasis or de-emphasis.60
In other words, according to the nmai curators and research assis-
tants, they took on the role of community “advocates.”61 This responsi-

236 shannon
bility to advocate is, in part, based on this particular kind of intimacy (or
shared knowledge) curators have with cocurators. However, one curator
revealed to me that in the museum bureaucracy, the Native communities
often become pawns in interoffice power struggles, and that one way to
assert themselves was to say, “the community wants it that way.”62 It was
explained a number of times that a commitment to Native voice could
also generate antagonism with other staff.
Therefore, participating in these community-curated exhibits had pro-
found effects for nmai staff within the museum; for instance, curators
gained both trust in Native communities and reputations for being “ob-
structionist” or “protective” within the museum. Perhaps somewhat in
consequence (along with other issues such as budget, timelines, and new
business philosophies), about a year after the nmai’s opening the Cura-
torial Department was disbanded, and curators were reassigned to other
departments during a massive organizational restructuring. There has
also been widespread critical discussion in the museum about the merits
and process of community curating.

The Reception of Native Voice

The individual community cocurators with whom I spoke felt empowered
by the collaborative process and appreciated the work of the nmai cura-
tors and staff to elicit and organize their discussions and to respect their
wishes in the course of exhibit development. One community cocurator
explained that the work of nmai Curatorial staff was, during meetings
with their committee, to guide “the discussion but in a very subtle way.
They were more or less listening to the feedback and comments from the
cocurators themselves.”63 A Kalinago cocurator described the collabora-
tive process as similar to “creating a dance — you have people dancing and
then you catch your steps and say, Guys! I love this one! Why don’t we
stick on this one. So, it was fun, to listen to the community people . . . but
at the same time capture the main fundamental things you were looking
[for] in the exhibit.”64
As for the impacts on the Native communities as a whole, in places that
are more remote and not in the United States, like Igloolik in the Arc-
tic and the Carib Territory in the Caribbean, there was very little overall
impact for having been a part of this exhibition. For Igloolik, they had

The Construction of Native Voice 237

worked with museums before and were frankly quite blasé about it (un-
til they saw the final product, when they were beaming at seeing family
members and friends in the videos on display). For the Kalinago in the
Carib Territory, there was a sense of pride in being selected, but it was
only realized in the few people who participated directly in the exhibit
and had traveled to Washington dc for the opening.
On the other hand, for the St. Laurent Metis of Manitoba, it sparked
a cultural center project, as they had won awards for their exhibit and
were recognized in Canada for their contributions to the nmai. Likewise,
the Chicago urban Indian community recorded their experience attend-
ing the opening in an award-winning video entitled “From Wilson Ave
to Washington dc,” which is now being sold in their gift shop and in the
nmai. Furthermore, although over half of all American Indians live in
cities, they are often overlooked and rarely if ever represented in muse-
ums. Their participation in the Our Lives exhibition gave members of the
Chicago community a sense of validation, and they mention this partici-
pation in everything from grant applications to public gatherings.
Despite the communities’ overwhelmingly positive reception, newspa-
per reviewers had an unexpectedly critical response to the exhibitions.
Their descriptions of confusing exhibits or a lack of scholarship at the
nmai were often met with a common statement by nmai staff: “They don’t
get it.” As Ann McMullen and Bruce Bernstein explain in a memorandum
to the board of trustees after the opening,

What is clear from the reviews is that nmai’s dependence on Native

voices — without “conceptual rigor” and without integration with other
sources, versions, or voices — makes the exhibits and their content dis-
tinctly unpersuasive. The direct question posed is “Why should visi-
tors believe what the museum says, including what Native people say?”
This suggests that nmai has failed to make a case for Native voice as
an authentic source by not providing visitors a foundation in the es-
sential subjectivity of all sources — Native or non-Native — and failed
to explain its own epistemology in bringing forward Native voices and
depending on them for the authority of the exhibits.65

Perhaps that is what Listening to Our Ancestors: The Art of Native Life
along the North Pacific Coast exhibition attempted to correct through

238 shannon
their panels describing Native voice as I mentioned earlier. While this
co-curating process has been commended by both Native and non-
Native scholars, the content of the exhibits, and especially the lost oppor-
tunity of emphasizing the colonial encounter and genocide, left a number
of reviewers dissatisfied.66
As often happens at this institution, as staff turnover occurs, approaches
to exhibit making and deciding what is best for Indian Country takes on
new forms. It remains to be seen what is next for community curating
at the nmai or if other methods will be developed for constructing Na-
tive voice. But I can at least say that, according to cocurators who par-
ticipated in the Our Lives gallery, the museum’s commitment to Native
voice through community curating was an empowering experience, if
somewhat sheltered from the battles within the institution.

Conclusion
Many people, like myself, have perhaps entered a museum and reviewed
its exhibits assuming that the display is as it was always meant to be.
But over the course of my fieldwork, it became clear that each exhibi-
tion — through its multiple authors and multiple specialists as well as
through its architectural, budgetary, and design requirements — rep-
resented instead a compromise of competing commitments, interests,
and visions. While I had anticipated a uniquely successful intersection
of postmodern engagement and authoritative representation, I found in
the course of my fieldwork that the authority of the Native communities
in these collaborative exhibits, while not contested, did not satisfy many
reviewers both within and outside of the museum. It did, however, create
ethical relationships for Our Lives contributors and accurate representa-
tions according to those who were closely partnered in the co-curating
committee meetings.
By focusing on the practices of knowledge production, or the collab-
orative process of exhibition development, we can see how a “thing” like
an exhibit acquired its “thingness,” how text and imagery became Native
voice, and consider whether these constructions satisfied the promises of
authenticity and authority made by the museum. We can also see how dis-
courses of paternalism versus advocacy and translation versus intimacy
reveal different communities of expertise with different ways of know-
The Construction of Native Voice 239
ing, understanding, and engaging with the reflexive subjects of museum
exhibitions.
Finally, this form of inquiry leads us to better understand the role of
the curators and their commitment to communities in this collaborative
process. We see that Native voice is constructed not only through embed-
ded material representations but also through the social relations of its
producers, including the source communities and museum staff.67 Native
voice is not just the authored text in the exhibit; it is also the anxiety and
commitment and advocacy that nmai staff and Native cocurators bring
to the process — each interacting with one another and being responsible
for each other within their own communities.68

Notes
1. Smithsonian Institution Office of Public Affairs, “National Museum of the Ameri-
can Indian Announces Grand Opening on Sept. 21,” news release, January 15,
2004.
2. Richard West, “A New Idea of Ourselves: The Changing Presentation of the Amer-
ican Indian,” in The Changing Presentation of the American Indian: Museums and
Native Cultures, ed. National Museum of the American Indian (Washington dc:
National Museum of the American Indian, 2000), 7, emphasis mine.
3. Ruth B. Phillips, “Community Collaboration in Exhibitions,” introduction to Mu-
seums and Source Communities: A Routledge Reader, ed. Laura L. Peers and Ali-
son K. Brown (London: Routledge, 2003), 166.
4. My research has been dedicated to documenting the collaborative relationships
and exhibit-making process of the nmai Our Lives gallery and is based on field-
work from June 2004 to June 2006, which was made possible by a dissertation-
fieldwork grant from the Wenner-Gren Foundation. I conducted nine months of
fieldwork at the museum from June to December of 2004 and from March to
June of 2006. I also spent six months in each of two Native communities featured
in the Our Lives exhibition: the urban Indian community of Chicago and the Ka-
linago (or Carib) community of the Commonwealth of Dominica. This research is
rooted in my own experiences of working in the nmai’s Curatorial Department
from August 1999 to May 2002 and as a contract fieldworker in 2003 and there-
fore provides a particular form of situated knowledge about museum practice
and perspective. For a discussion about situated knowledge, see Donna Haraway,
“Situated Knowledges: The Science Question in Feminism and the Privilege of
Partial Perspective,” in Simians, Cyborgs, and Women: The Reinvention of Nature,
(New York: Routledge, 1991), 183–201. I would like to thank Hiro Miyazaki, Pa-

240 shannon
 mela Smart, and Kim Couvson for their comments on earlier drafts. I would
like also to thank the nmai staff represented or quoted herein for their contribu-
tions through thoughtful conversations with me over the years, especially Dr.
Cynthia Chavez, who was the lead curator of the Our Lives gallery and who en-
couraged me to embark on this work.
5. The 2003 version of this paper began as an experimental essay in 2002, which I
later condensed and presented at the Cornell Department of Science and Tech-
nology Studies Conference, “Observing, Investigating, Reporting: Science Studies
and Local Ethnographies,” in April of 2003. It presents a perspective on museum
practice that I certainly would not have imagined while working as a museum
researcher. Using the notion of evidence to think differently about museum prac-
tice was inspired by a course taught by Hiro Miyazaki.
6. Margaret Dubin, Native America Collected: The Culture of an Art World (Albu-
querque: University of New Mexico Press, 2001), 90.
7. Dubin, Native America Collected, 85.
8. West, “A New Idea of Ourselves.”
9. Michael M. Ames, Museums, the Public, and Anthropology: A Study in the An-
thropology of Anthropology (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press,
1986).
10. Michael M. Ames, Cannibal Tours and Glass Boxes: The Anthropology of Mu-
seums (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1992). In anthropology,
calls to reconfigure ethnography and anthropology and to renegotiate fieldwork
are indicators of this crisis. See Douglas Holmes and George Marcus, “Cultures
of Expertise and the Management of Globalization: Toward a Re-functioning of
Ethnography,” in Global Assemblages: Technology, Politics, and Ethics as Anthro-
pological Problems, ed. Aihwa Ong and Stephen J. Collier (Malden ma: Blackwell
Publishing, 2005); George Marcus and Michael Fischer, Anthropology as Cultural
Critique: An Experimental Moment in the Human Sciences (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1999); George Marcus, Ethnography through Thick and Thin (Prince-
ton nj: Princeton University Press, 1998); and James Clifford, Routes: Travel and
Translation in the Late Twentieth Century (Cambridge ma: Harvard University
Press, 1997), esp. p. 89. Marcus and Fischer explain in Anthropology as Cultural
Critique that this time of “crisis” is similar to that in the 1920s and 1930s and that
it is apart of a cycle of paradigms; Marcus and Fischer, Anthropology as Cultural
Critique, 8, 12. Dominic Boyer addresses the notion of crisis rhetoric in intellec-
tual disciplines in his discussion of German intellectuals with a deep sense of cul-
tural pessimism, who perceive a decline in intellectual and cultural traditions.
This “language of crisis” intimates a loss of prestige and authority, while the sta-
tus and security of the German intellectuals were quite high. Dominic Boyer,
“The Social Life of German Cultural Bourgeoisie in the ‘Long Nineteenth Century’
and Their Dialectical Knowledge of German-Ness” in Spirit and System: Media,

The Construction of Native Voice 241

 Intellectuals, and the Dialectic in Modern German Culture (Chicago: University
of Chicago Press, 2005). Similarly, consider the subsequent “museum boom” since
this time in relation to Ames’s and Sturtevant’s “language of crisis.” Compare Mary
Bouquet, ed., Academic Anthropology and the Museum: Back to the Future (New
York: Berghahn Books, 2001); with Ames, Museums, the Public, and Anthropol-
ogy; Ames, Cannibal Tours and Glass Boxes; and William C. Sturtevant, “Does
Anthropology Need Museums?” Proceedings of the Biological Society of Washing-
ton 182 (1969): 619–50.
11. Marcus and Fischer, Anthropology as Cultural Critique, 8; and Ames, Cannibal
Tours and Glass Boxes, 168. With influence from the field of literary criticism,
James Clifford and George Marcus’s influential text Writing Culture took a criti-
cal approach to the main product of anthropological research — the ethnography;
see James Clifford and George E. Marcus, eds., Writing Culture: The Poetics and
Politics of Ethnography (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986). Reflect-
ing on their earlier work in Writing Culture, Marcus and Fischer conclude that
this crisis arose with an “uncertainty about adequate means of describing social
reality.” Marcus and Fischer, Anthropology as Cultural Critique, 8. By regarding
ethnography as invention rather than as the (direct) representation of cultures
and by emphasizing it as a writing process, authors in Writing Culture brought
into question the act of representation and the authority and authenticity of the
writer and the written document, respectively. I would argue that Vine Deloria
Jr., a board member of the nmai and a notorious critic of anthropological engage-
ments with Native peoples, was equally critical to the changing nature of the
museum and of anthropology in North America. Deloria’s Custer Died for Your
Sins contributed significantly to the critique of anthropological literature, ethno-
graphic practice, and contemporary museums. Vine Deloria Jr., Custer Died for
Your Sins: An Indian Manifesto (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1988);
see also Thomas Biolsi and Larry J. Zimmerman, Indians and Anthropologists: Vine
Deloria, Jr., and the Critique of Anthropology (Tucson: University of Arizona Press,
1997).
12. See for example, Ivan Karp and Steven D. Lavine, eds., Exhibiting Cultures: The
Poetics and Politics of Museum Display (Washington dc: Smithsonian Institution
Press, 1991); Ivan Karp, Christine Kreamer, and Steven D. Lavine, eds., Museums
and Communities: The Politics of Public Culture (Washington dc: Smithsonian
Institution Press, 1992); and Richard Kurin, Reflections of a Cultural Broker: A
View from the Smithsonian (Washington dc: Smithsonian Institution Press,
1997).
13. I am sure that some nmai staff members would bristle at my reference to the
nmai as an ethnographic museum; I use the term here because the process
through which exhibit material was obtained was in part through (para)ethno-
graphic practices. For those staff members with whom I spoke, when they called

242 shannon
 an exhibit “too ethnographic,” they considered this clearly to be a negative cri-
tique.
14. Kurin, Reflections of a Cultural Broker, 283. Discussions of authenticity regarding
museums tend to focus on the authenticity of objects, or the valuation of art and
artifacts or of art versus artifacts; James Clifford, The Predicament of Culture:
Twentieth-Century Ethnography, Literature, and Art (Cambridge ma: Harvard
University Press, 1988); Clifford, Routes, 211; Christopher Steiner and Ruth B. Phil-
lips, African Art in Transit (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 100–2;
Michael O’Hanlon, Paradise: Portraying the New Guinea Highlands (London: Brit-
ish Museum Press, 1993), 62, 81; Ruth B. Phillips and Christopher Steiner, “Art,
Authenticity and the Baggage of Cultural Encounter,” in Unpacking Culture: Art
and Commodity in Colonial and Postcolonial Worlds, ed. Ruth B. Phillips and
Christopher B. Steiner (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), 19; Shelly
Errington, The Death of Authentic Primitive Art and Other Tales of Progress (Berke-
ley: University of California Press, 1998); and Sally Price, Primitive Art in Civi-
lized Places (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989). Ames discusses how
the Canadian Museum of Civilization has been shifting the focus away from
authentic objects or “real things,” to authentic visitor “experience.” In other words,
whether it is the “real thing,” a replica, or a digital or graphic representation, it is
the visitor’s experience within the exhibit that is desired to be authentic. Ames,
Cannibal Tours and Glass Boxes, 158–59.
15. Dubin, Native America Collected, 87.
16. Dubin, Native America Collected, 86.
17. Native is not only an adjective, but it is also a noun used by the nmai to describe
Indigenous, Aboriginal, and First Nations peoples. This is the language of the
museum that I have chosen to follow in this essay.
18. nmai, “The National Museum of the American Indian,” Smithsonian Institution,
http://www.nmai.si.edu/index.html (accessed December 12, 2002).
19. Dubin, Native America Collected, 85.
20. These meetings were held at the American Indian Center, which is a central place
to access the community. But of course this also excluded many American Indians
who do not participate in activities at the center. However, the issue of the limita-
tions that this approach had for a broader representation of Chicago Native ex-
perience is beyond the scope of this particular paper. See James B. LaGrand, In-
dian Metropolis: Native Americans in Chicago, 1945–75 (Urbana: University of
Illinois Press, 2002).
21. William W. Fitzhugh, “Ambassadors in Sealskins: Exhibiting Eskimos at the Smith-
sonian,” in Exhibiting Dilemmas: Issues of Representation at the Smithsonian, ed.
Amy Henderson and Adrienne L. Kaeppler (Washington dc: Smithsonian Insti-
tution Press, 1997), 214.
22. Dubin, Native America Collected, 92. The Museum of the American Indian begun

The Construction of Native Voice 243

 by George Gustav Heye was later acquired by the Smithsonian, and it then be-
came the nmai.
23. Fitzhugh, “Ambassadors in Sealskins,” 227.
24. See by way of comparison Eilean Hooper-Greenhill, Museums and the Shaping
of Knowledge (New York: Routledge, 1992), 204.
25. nmai, “All Roads Are Good,” (Washington dc: Smithsonian Institution Press,
2002).
26. Dubin, Native America Collected, 89, 96.
27. Jim Volkert (former head of the nmai Exhibits Department), personal interview
with the author, Washington dc, July 8, 2004.
28. Dubin, Native America Collected, 92, emphasis mine.
29. For a discussion of what happens when a discipline’s knowledge fails, see Hirokazu
Miyazaki and Annelise Riles, “Failure as an Endpoint,” in Ong and Collier, Global
Assemblages, 320–32. See also numerous accounts of the exhibit Into the Heart
of Africa, which was described as a failure to communicate with the audience,
who misunderstood the “sophisticated” exhibit and became angry: Anna Laura
Jones, “Exploding Cannons: The Anthropology of Museums,” Annual Review of
Anthropology 22 (1993): 211; Jeanne Cannizzo, Into the Heart of Africa (Toronto:
Royal Ontario Museum, 1989); Jeanne Cannizzo, “Exhibiting Cultures: Into the
Heart of Africa,” Visual Anthropology Review 7, no. 1 (1991): 150–60; and Ames,
Cannibal Tours and Glass Boxes, 157.
30. This lack of recognizable museum objects was emphasized by the Collections staff,
referring to the Our Lives gallery as “Our Props” (as opposed to “Our Loans” for
the Our Peoples gallery and “Our Objects” for the Our Universes gallery). In
2004 I overheard one senior manager call the Our Lives gallery “T-Shirts and
Baseball Caps.”
31. Gerard Hilferty and Associates, National Museum of the American Indian Smith-
sonian Institution Mall Facility Exhibition Master Plan, Phase I Interim Report:
Orientation and Research (Washington dc, 1995), 3.
32. See Lorraine Daston, “Marvelous Facts and Miraculous Evidence in Early Modern
Europe,” in Questions of Evidence: Proof, Practice, and Persuasion across the Disci-
plines, ed. James K. Chandler, Arnold Ira Davidson, and Harry D. Harootunian
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), 274.
33. Ames asks in his discussion of the valuation and authenticity of Native art, is a
work Indigenous because of its aesthetics or “is being Native enough, sharing in
the indigenous experience?” Ames, Cannibal Tours and Glass Boxes, 82–83.
34. Dubin, Native America Collected, 84. See also Fred R. Myers, Painting Culture:
The Making of an Aboriginal High Art (Durham nc: Duke University Press, 2002),
198–99; Ruth B. Phillips, “Apec at the Museum of Anthropology: The Politics of
Site and the Poetics of Sight Bite,” Ethnos 65, no. 2 (2000): 172; Brian Durrans,
“The Future of the Other: Changing Cultures on Display in Ethnographic Mu-

244 shannon
 seums,” in The Museum Time Machine: Putting Cultures on Display, ed. Robert
Lumley (New York: Routledge, 1988), 164; Ames, Cannibal Tours and Glass Boxes,
22.
35. Fitzhugh, “Ambassadors in Sealskins,” 209. Fitzhugh and I are referring to the
outdated “Eskimo” exhibit at the National Museum of Natural History in Wash-
ington dc. While this exhibit was still up, the Alaska Office of the National Mu-
seum of Natural History’s Arctic Studies Program began creating more recent
and collaboration-centered exhibitions.
36. Fitzhugh, “Ambassadors in Sealskins,” 228. See also Clifford, Predicament of Cul-
ture, 25; David Dean, Museum Exhibition: Theory and Practice (New York: Rout-
ledge, 1994), 116.
37. Fitzhugh, “Ambassadors in Sealskins,” 229.
38. Michael Lynch, Scientific Practice and Ordinary Action: Ethnomethodology and
Social Studies of Science (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 281.
39. Lynch, Scientific Practice and Ordinary Action, 280.
40. Michael Silverstein and Greg Urban, Natural Histories of Discourse (Chicago: Uni-
versity of Chicago Press, 1996), 3.
41. As anthropologist Pam Smart reminded me, there are other centers that specifically
collect “discourse,” such as the Smithsonian’s Folklife Center.
42. See Mary Bouquet, “Thinking and Doing Otherwise: Anthropological Theory in
Exhibitionary Practice,” Ethnos 65, no. 2 (2000): 226.
43. Annelise Riles, The Network Inside Out (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press,
2001), 119.
44. Riles, Network Inside Out, 120.
45. For example, the fact that a multitribal, urban-Indian population will be displayed
in the same manner as federally and state-recognized tribes, presented as a cohe-
sive community, can be seen as intending to create a sense of legitimization or
validation in viewers’ perspectives of an often-overlooked but majority Native
population.
46. This realism in exhibition design is similar to what Kirshenblatt-Gimblett de-
scribes as an “in situ” approach, in which the installation tries to “include more
of what was left behind, even if only in replica.” Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett,
“Objects of Ethnography,” in Karp and Lavine, Exhibiting Cultures, 388.
47. Fitzhugh, “Ambassadors in Sealskins,” 233.
48. Kurin, Reflections of a Cultural Broker, 279.
49. “The design of nmai’s facilities, including that for the new museum on the Na-
tional Mall, reflects the museum’s commitment to work in consultation, collabo-
ration, and cooperation with Native people in all of the museum’s activities. Be-
tween 1990 and 1993, nmai and other Smithsonian offices conducted a series of
twenty-four consultations with various constituency groups to determine what
they wanted the new museum to be. The majority of the participants in these con-

The Construction of Native Voice 245

 sultations were Native people. . . . While consultations were oriented toward archi-
tectural and program issues, discussions often took the form of animated, emo-
tional, and philosophical conversations about the condition and representation
of Native people — past, present, and future.” nmai, “The National Museum of the
American Indian,” http://www.nmai.si.edu/mall/index.html (accessed December
12, 2002).
50. Silverstein and Urban, Natural Histories of Discourse, 11.
51. This portion of the essay is based on a conference paper prepared for the Central
States Anthropological Association Meeting in Omaha, Nebraska, in April
2006.
52. Richard West (nmai director), personal interview with the author, Washington
dc, November 18, 2004.
53. nmai, Mission Statement, (Smithsonian Institution, 2002).
54. Personal interview with an nmai staff member, Washington dc, September 8,
2004.
55. I am in no way suggesting that public-oriented department staff do not also have
a strong desire to do what is right for Native communities; but this divide in lan-
guage, interpretation, perception, and practice about how to fulfill the nmai’s mis-
sion of Native voice among nmai departments is a key part of the museum’s in-
ternal dynamics.
56. Personal interview with an nmai program manager, Washington dc, March 23,
2006.
57. Personal interview with an nmai script writer–editor, Washington dc, September
8, 2004.
58. Personal interview with an nmai curator, Suitland, Maryland, November 23,
2004.
59. nmai curator, personal interview, November 23, 2004.
60. In general, Curatorial’s direct and intimate contact with Native communities was
coveted by other departmental staff members, who did not have such intimate ex-
periences but who would say to me they wished they could. In this way, in a sym-
bolic capital sense, Curatorial is at the top of the hierarchy, and its members are
considered to be in a respected field. But in a power sense, as in decision-making
capacity within the museum structure, they were far lower on the chain of com-
mand over time.
61. “All three [inaugural] exhibits are community curated, at least 70 percent. What
we mean by that is the museum curators, the museum staff, whether Native or
non-Native, serve as facilitators or advocates, that the experts reside in the com-
munities.” Bruce Bernstein (deputy assistant director of cultural resources), at the
Our Lives vetting session, December 14, 2000.
62. Personal interview with an nmai curator, Suitland, Maryland, October 29,
2004.

246 shannon
63. Personal interview with an nmai cocurator, Carib Territory, Dominica, April 13,
2005.
64. Personal interview with an nmai cocurator, Carib Territory, Dominica, April 25,
2005.
65. Ann McMullen and Bruce Bernstein, Mall Museum Reviews: An Overview and
Analysis Unpublished Internal Document Created for the Board of Trustees,
(National Museum of the American Indian, 2004). Used with permission of the
authors.
66. Amy Lonetree and Sonya Atalay, eds., “Critical Engagements with the National
Museum of the American Indian,” special issue, American Indian Quarterly 30,
nos. 3–4 (2006).
67. Laura L. Peers and Alison K. Brown, eds., Museums and Source Communities: A
Routledge Reader (London; New York: Routledge, 2003).
68. P. Batty discusses the relationship between government advisors and Aboriginal
communities in Australia as well as the need for Aboriginal authorization to con-
duct projects in their communities. He examines how Aboriginal people must
endorse these advisors, investing them with cultural capital. Through a one-on-
one relationship with a particular Aboriginal person (like a community liaison
in the nmai community curating process), the white individual’s motivations, per-
sonal commitment, and alignment with the broader group could be explained
and endorsed by his or her Aboriginal partner. In other words, confirmation that
a hitherto “unknown white fella” was “on side” was facilitated through his or her
demonstrable relationship with an Aboriginal person with the group. One could
say that through these arrangements, the Aboriginal partner “empowered” his
non-Aboriginal offsider to work on behalf of the Aboriginal community. P. Batty,
“Private Politics, Public Strategies: White Advisers and Their Aboriginal Subjects,”
Oceania 75, no. 3 (2005): 217.
While nmai curators were both Native and non-Native, their relationship to
Native communities as outside government advisors (in museum matters) can
also be seen as being in need of endorsement by the community. Particularly in
the process of interviewing and in other work outside of the community cura-
tor meetings, the liaison and Native cocurators were essential to nmai staff being
introduced to and having positive working relationships with additional com-
munity members.

The Construction of Native Voice 247

3
Tribal Museums and
the Heterogeneity of
the Nation-State
 Creation of the Tribal Museum
brenda j. child

Tribal museums are unique institutions and their proliferation today is

an affirmation of how history can empower Indigenous people. Ameri-
can Indian and First Nations peoples have not always been empowered
by history or museums. In a number of ways, the tribal museum exists
to contest and critique colonial notions of American and Canadian his-
tory that have been so disempowering to tribal nations. Revising history
is not their only purpose. Tribal museums must serve the varied needs of
Indigenous communities, whether that means undertaking historic and
cultural preservation projects; teaching children from the tribe; restoring
dignity to elders; or educating a broader public on Indian history, poli-
tics, culture, and sovereignty through tourism. Tribal museums remind
us that North America is still a place of hundreds of diverse nations, each
possessing distinct historical traditions and ways of interpreting and de-
fining history, with dynamic cultural practices that predate the nation-
states of the United States and Canada.
The tribal museum is not a new institution in Indian Country. The first
tribal museums in the United States emerged in the mid-twentieth cen-
tury. The Osage Tribal Museum in Pawhuska, Oklahoma, was constructed
as a Works Progress Administration (wpa) and Civilian Conservation
Corps (ccc) project that opened to the public in 1938 and today is on the
National Register of Historic Places. And the Museum of the Cherokee
in North Carolina opened a decade later. The Mille Lacs Indian Museum
in Onamia, Minnesota, is located on Ojibwe land; but it has been a col-
laborative project between the band and the Minnesota Historical Soci-
ety since the early 1960s and is a state historic site as well as a tribal mu-
seum. Like Mille Lacs, the Southeast Alaska Indian Cultural Center has
developed a critical partnership outside of the community. The cultural

251
center is a Tlingit nonprofit organization but is housed in a national park
visitor center in Sitka after its establishment in 1969.
The tribal museum movement has steadily grown since the early days
of the 1960s and 1970s — a crucial era when Indigenous leaders, activ-
ists, and intellectuals demanded change in historical narratives and when
the first departments of American Indian studies organized in American
universities. Now a whole generation has grown up with these ideas, and
some have devoted careers to writing our own versions of history, telling
our own stories in museum exhibits, for reasons important to our fami-
lies, communities, and tribal nations. The tribal museum has flourished
in that milieu. The second wave of tribal museums, including the Makah
Cultural and Research Center on the Olympic Peninsula, opened in 1979
in the aftermath of the excavation of the remarkable archaeological site
of Ozette. The Seneca-Iroquois National Museum in Salamanca, New
York, dates from 1977; and the Yakama Nation Cultural Heritage Cen-
ter in Toppenish, Washington, opened in 1980. The most recent wave of
tribal museums has grown because of the impetus provided by the Native
American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act of 1990. The material
benefits made possible by gaming have also played a significant role, the
most prominent example of this being the Mashantucket Pequot Museum
and Research Center in Connecticut, whose tribal museum and research
center is a 308,000-square-foot complex that consists of a gallery, class-
rooms, an auditorium, a library, and a children’s library, as well as storage
and conservation facilities.
Tribal museums share some of the same objectives as conventional mu-
seums, such as public history education; but the practice for which they
are celebrated, extensive community involvement and collaboration, helps
reproduce tribal values within the museum setting. Today we have well
over one hundred of these institutions in the United States and Canada,
and new tribal museums open every year. Tribal museums have been an
important site of collaboration, one that has successfully engaged a new
generation of tribal leaders and Indigenous intellectuals.
Brian Vallo, the former lieutenant governor of the Pueblo of Acoma
and director of the Historic Preservation Office, was the founding direc-
tor of the Sky City Cultural Center and Haak’u Museum, which opened
in 2006. Vallo always emphasizes the importance of the seventy-nine

252 child
focus groups they held at Acoma to develop the new museum, some of
which included children, artists, elders, and spiritual leaders from the
community. The meetings were crucial to every aspect of the museum,
including the design, which incorporates historic pueblo architecture but
also shows the influence of newer reservation architecture such as hud
houses and trailers. Design aesthetics that reflect Indigenous principles
are a hallmark of tribal museums, a point of self-esteem for tribes, and
an indication to visitors that they are on tribal ground. Community col-
laboration, an area in which tribal museums have been so innovative and
successful, is a valuable model for mainstream institutions that also work
with Indigenous communities and history.
These scholarly essays highlight the exciting history and present the
vitality of tribal museums from all regions of Indian Country. Tribal mu-
seum research is a rich area of study, with the potential to be an impor-
tant lens for understanding tribal communities’ views of their own pasts,
their conflicts and resolutions, and the dynamics of cultural and politi-
cal sovereignty. Together, these essays point out that tribal museums are
doing more than preserving a past and debunking outdated narratives of
Indian history, as important as these goals may be. Tribal museums are
Indigenous spaces that both reflect Native values and knowledge systems
and languages, and work toward the preservation of living cultures. Tribal
museums, while rooted in a Western institutional tradition, are further-
ing goals of decolonization and tribal sovereignty. They are museums, but
they are also significant centers for community life today.
Gwyneira Isaac’s essay, “Responsibilities toward Knowledge: The Zuni
Museum and the Mediation of Different Knowledge Systems,” presents
an essential historical and cultural context for understanding the tribal
museum on the Zuni Reservation in New Mexico. As Isaac explains, the
Zuni system of knowledge values responsibility, from which ritual knowl-
edge is inseparable. Zuni ideas have often come into conflict with twen-
tieth-century anthropologists, many of whom intruded on Zuni beliefs
and philosophy in dramatic ways through their ethnographic practices.
Anthropologists collected knowledge from the Zunis by exhaustively pho-
tographing Zuni ceremonies, and scholar Frank Cushing went so far as
to duplicate Zuni religious paraphernalia. Isaac argues that the tribal mu-
seum in Zuni is informed by this history. The work going on at the tribal

Part 3 Introduction 253

museum in Zuni today includes the development of innovative “cultural
maps,” created by Zuni artists and elders. This supports the tribal muse-
um’s goal of transmitting Zuni knowledge of places in their landscape to
young people in ways that respect Zuni ideas about responsibility. Only
knowledgeable practitioners who privilege oral history interpret the maps
to young people. The tribal museum in Zuni is able to meet the needs of
the community by educating children in Zuni culture and philosophy,
which protects their lands and resources for the future and advances Zuni
sovereignty.
In “Reimagining Tribal Sovereignty through Tribal History: Museums,
Libraries, and Archives in the Klamath River Region,” Brian Isaac Dan-
iels addresses three recent tribal museums, libraries and archives, the in-
fluence of two court cases in their development, and the tribes’ need “to
create and to control outward representations of their culture.” Daniels
studied the Hoopa Tribal Museum, a small museum open to the pub-
lic, which preserves and cares for tribal objects in ways that are useful
to the Hoopa. Unlike most mainstream museums, objects at the Hoopa
are also for ceremony, not just display. Daniels’ second case study is of
the Yuroks, who like many tribes in Indian Country organized a Tribal
Historic Preservation Office, and their attempt to identify and preserve
historic, cultural, and sacred sites in the Yurok landscape. Daniels also
considers Shasta, a non-federally recognized tribe with no reservation,
which developed a tribal archive to house enrollment records; census
materials; and scholarly, popular, and newspaper writings about Shasta
people. Daniels argues that, whether located in a national capital or upon
a remote reservation, tribal museums and archives share a similar aim in
aspiring to “the dream of total knowledge,” but this might be contested
by the people he studied. Tribes in the Klamath River region, along with
other American Indians, value the knowledge held by community mem-
bers, elders, and others invested with sacred knowledge about their way
of life, landscapes, and resources. As useful as tribes find tribal museums,
libraries, and archives in their ongoing struggle for cultural and political
sovereignty, knowledge still resides primarily in the community.
Kristina Ackley, a Wisconsin Oneida scholar, has written about her
nation’s tribal museum in the essay “The Oneida Nation Museum: Cre-
ating a Space for Haudenosaunee Kinship and Identity.” Ackley reflects

254 child
on the history of the Oneida Nation Museum in Wisconsin, founded in
1970, placing it in the context of Oneida history. The Wisconsin Oneidas
maintain their identity as Haudenosaunee people, though their homeland
and kin are in New York and the Northeast. The longhouse at the Oneida
museum, Ackley writes, is part of a historical narrative that “testifies to an
ongoing revitalization”; is a “marker of identity” that connects the nation
to their past in the East; and presents an “official narrative” of Oneida his-
tory and culture. The museum has been a positive presence in the com-
munity; but controversies have emerged, including one issue resolved
over time regarding the display of medicine masks. Ackley concludes,
“the community is the context necessary to understand the exhibits” at
their “museum for tribal people,” though the museum also functions to
educate the public about Wisconsin Indian history.
In “Museums as Sites of Decolonization: Truth Telling in National and
Tribal Museums,” Amy Lonetree calls for truth telling in museums, argu-
ing that the National Museum of the American Indian, despite extensive
collaborations with tribal communities throughout the Americas, fails on
many levels because historical exhibits do not contain the “hard truths
of the specifics of Native-white relations,” leaving “Native people unable
to heal from historical trauma.” Lonetree and many critics have pointed
out that the journey to the inauguration of the new museum has not been
without its share of controversies and that many dissatisfied, talented In-
dian staff members departed the museum before its inauguration, feel-
ing it fell short of its aspiration to be the “Museum Different.” Lonetree
finds that a better conduit for truth telling is the tribal museum, especially
the Ziibiwing Center for Anishinabe Culture and Lifeways in Michigan,
which she cites as a good example for its decolonizing practices. Ziibiwing
succeeds, according to Lonetree, because oral histories form the basis for
its historical interpretation and because its exhibits are organized in a way
that is respectful of Ojibwe spiritual traditions and prophecies.
The development of so many new tribal museums in recent decades
is unexpected, given the conflicts and contradictions that are involved in
the adoption of this most Western of institutions. The tribal museum has
provided another outlet for Indian creativity, remaking a colonial insti-
tution in ways that preserve the fundamental structures of tribal society
and advance sovereignty. Kristina Ackley writes that the tribal museum

Part 3 Introduction 255

directly confronts “the nationalizing intentions of Western museums.” In
my own state of Minnesota, the Mille Lacs Band of Ojibwe rebuilt and re-
interpreted their tribal museum simultaneous to a case the tribe was pur-
suing over treaty rights, which appeared before the U.S. Supreme Court
in 1999. In 1990 the Mille Lacs Band of Ojibwe sued the state of Minne-
sota, which argued that treaty rights to hunt, fish, and gather over ceded
lands no longer existed once Minnesota entered the union. In 1999 the
Supreme Court rejected the state’s argument, which was a great victory
for tribal sovereignty. The court case no doubt influenced the redevelop-
ment of the tribal museum, especially how the tribe represented their his-
tory to visitors. The tribal museum at Mille Lacs is a reminder that Indian
people live in a complex world, where politics often inform decisions and
influence our narratives of history. In this struggle, the tribal museum is
an important Indigenous space where Native people control and shape
policies and exhibits with unprecedented tribal community cooperation
and involvement.

256 child
9
Tsi niyukwaliho t , the
Oneida Nation Museum
Creating a Space for Haudenosaunee
Kinship and Identity
kristina ackley

Visitors driving to Tsi¥niyukwaliho¥Λ (“This is our way”), the Oneida

Nation Museum (onm) in Oneida, Wisconsin, will notice several things
as they approach.1 The onm is located just downhill from a tribal senior-
housing facility and from a row of low, vacant buildings that used to house
the former Oneida Health Care Center. Turning into the driveway, a pink
neon Open sign is visible just above the onm front door, somewhat incon-
gruous with the otherwise-understated wood building that is surrounded
by trees. A small garden is well tended in the back of the museum, and at
the end of the parking area there is a marked trail that leads into a wooded
area. Probably most striking about the setting of the onm is the longhouse
(see fig. 13), about ten feet wide by sixteen feet long, just in front of the
main entrance. The longhouse replica, made of a wood frame and wood
shingles, has occupied different places on the museum site throughout
the years. In its current placement, visitors to the onm cannot help but
pass by the longhouse.
The longhouse replica (Kanúses néka¥ikΛ) immediately marks the space
as Oneida. It conveys a multifaceted meaning of both place and a belief
system. The Wisconsin Oneidas are a distinct people and consider them-
selves a nation. However, they also participate in a shared cultural system
that is based on the teachings of the Peacemaker and Handsome Lake,
and they recognize a spiritual kinship with other Haudenosaunee peo-
ple (also known as the Iroquois Confederacy, or Six Nations). The cer-
emonies of the longhouse are the outward and public expression of a liv-

257
ing spirituality. The longhouse permeates every aspect of life, proscribes
ethics, and helps one deal with hardships; it has been called, “the highest
form of political consciousness.”2 Longhouse spirituality reinforces the
social life of the community and distinguishes its participants from oth-
ers. While the replica outside the onm is not used for ceremonies, it is still
associated with the belief system and is used by onm staff and the com-
munity for a variety of functions. The longhouse and the onm represent
tsi¥niyukwaliho¥tΛ or “the ways” of the people for Oneida and Haude-
nosaunee people. It is part of ka¥nikuli.yó (“the Good Mind”), which
has been described as a process toward balance, harmony, and peace.
Ka¥nikuli.yó is not a state of being or the ultimate goal, but a discipline
toward peace.3 It requires continual reflection and work. The ka¥nikuli.yó
provides a way in which to mediate dissension in a framework of cultural
resilience and nation building. When the Wisconsin Oneidas refer to the
longhouse, they mean not only the physical structure but also a way of
life and much of what encompasses tsi¥niyukwaliho¥tΛ. Additionally, it
is shorthand that refers to the people who take part in the ceremonies.
Inside the onm there is also a smaller structure that is meant to resem-

13. The longhouse (Kanúses néka¥ikΛ) located just outside the Oneida Nation Mu-
seum. Photo courtesy Linda Torres.

258 ackley
ble the longhouse, in the hands-on area, where visitors are encouraged
to view and handle items such as lacrosse sticks, pottery, clothing, and
rattles.
The longhouse connotes security — it is a shelter, after all. If the replica
outside the onm seems exposed to the elements, it also gives the impres-
sion of having protection from them. It seems simultaneously of the sur-
roundings as well as existing separately from them. Inside the structure
are low benches, fire pits, and smoke holes. It is a simulation, not nearly
as large as the current community longhouse at Oneida, Wisconsin, but
rather a model that is meant to evoke the sentiment of tsi¥niyukwaliho¥tΛ.
Because it is necessary to rebuild the structure every seven years or so, it
also seems a transitory yet enduring sign of Oneida culture and history.
It is important to view the longhouse replica in terms of the over-
all history of the Wisconsin Oneidas. Assimilation policies and removal
from their Aboriginal territory resulted in the absence of a community
longhouse in Wisconsin for nearly a century (though personal rituals
and some smaller ceremonies remained). However, the longhouse out-
side the onm does not signify a memorial to its absence from the com-
munity, nor is it a marker of the past. Instead, the longhouse replica tes-
tifies to an ongoing revitalization among the Wisconsin Oneidas. Given
the weighted meaning of the longhouse way of life and government and
its relationship to the Wisconsin Oneidas, it is evidence of how the onm
constructs a historical narrative that is represented to both tribal mem-
bers and non-Oneidas. This study discusses the mediating of the space of
the onm and the relationship to the broader Haudenosaunee community
that it represents. Overall, the onm functions as a marker of identity that
links the Oneidas to New York. It is a site that places the Oneidas both in
and of Wisconsin.
This paper focuses on the meaning of the onm as a cultural center for
the Wisconsin Oneida community. It is informed by my tribal member-
ship as a Wisconsin Oneida and internships in the mid-1990s working
with the collections of the onm. An important aspect of this analysis ques-
tions how a museum can be created by and intended for the community
and subsequently how it is recognized as a medium for transmitting tribal
knowledge. The space of the onm is of authority; it is one of several com-
munity interpreters and upholders of Oneida ideals and beliefs. The onm

Tsi¥niyukwaliho¥tΛ 259
is a guardian of cultural values that helps make it possible for the Wiscon-
sin Oneidas to connect with their past in New York and strengthen their
relationship to other Haudenosaunee people. By giving a tribally sanc-
tioned and official narrative coherence to their history and culture, the
onm operates as a touchstone through which tribal members can affirm
their Haudenosaunee identity. It protects as well as keeps the past. Yet it
is not a static monument to ancient times, for the onm also shapes how
people engage with their sense of self as contemporary Oneidas.

Removal: Oneidas of the Homeland

to Oneidas in Wisconsin
Although the Oneidas were known from their first arrival in Wisconsin
and until the middle of the twentieth century as the “New York Indians,”
they also became very much the historical product of their experiences
in Wisconsin. They were viewed as somehow separate from other Onei-
das. The distance was in both geography and philosophy. There are some
who contend that the Wisconsin Oneidas are very much different from
other Oneidas, that their settlement in Wisconsin after removal was a per-
manent and impermeable break with other Haudenosaunee. In this view,
the Wisconsin Oneidas gave up any chance of returning as a community
to their homeland. It is a Native nation, but its persistence as Haudeno-
saunee is questioned today by a few.4 In order to understand how the onm
strenuously and effectively contests this interpretation of their relation-
ship to the Haudenosaunee, it is necessary to examine the factors that led
to their removal to Wisconsin.
The Oneidas, or OnΛyote¥Λa·ká (“People of the Standing Stone”),
are one of six nations that comprise the Haudenosaunee.5 Eighteenth-
century treaties recognized Oneida territory as a large swath of land that
ran through what is now central New York State, some five million acres.
Because a particularly desired transportation route known as the Oneida
Carrying Place was in this territory, non-Natives began to settle there
immediately. The pressure for Oneida removal was intense, particularly
between 1785 and 1815.6 Land speculators, increased settlement due to
the rising population of New York State, the influence of Christian mis-
sionaries, and differences within the Oneida Nation all contributed to
Oneida removal.7

260 ackley
 Today, there are three main Oneida communities: in New York (2,000
members); near Southwold, Ontario (5,000 members of the Thames Onei-
das); and in Wisconsin (15,000 members). In addition there are Oneidas
in other territories, including Grand River (a Six Nations territory in Can-
ada), as well as reservations in Oklahoma. The majority of Oneidas have
a long history of alienation from their Aboriginal land base. The first for-
mal removals to Wisconsin took place in a series of events between 1820
and 1838. Shortly afterward, more Oneidas removed to a settlement near
Southwold, Ontario, between 1839 and 1845. In addition, because non-
Native settlers refused to allow them to remain, many of the Oneidas who
stayed in New York State after 1845 moved a short distance from Oneida
territory to live as guests at Onondaga, home to the Clan Mothers and
the Chiefs Council of the Confederacy. The people in each of the Oneida
communities formed deep attachments to their new places and in many
ways became separate communities with their own histories and ways of
being. However, continued Oneida mobility and travel between Oneida
communities fostered feelings of kinship and a belief in a unified Oneida
Nation, if not in the present circumstances or in the near future, at least
as a narrative of the past that each shared and believed in.
Travel has often been viewed as a displacement of Indigenous cultural
identity and values, as it seemingly threatens a place-bound vision of Na-
tive people that depicts them as being part of the landscape. In contrast
to this view, travel is an intrinsic part of most Oneidas’ identities, both
individually and as a common way of understanding themselves as a
group. Travel has decisively informed a historical narrative that stresses
the ways in which mobility was a part of many Oneidas’ lives before the
diaspora. This belief was sustained after removal as many Oneidas trav-
eled and lived interchangeably at the different Oneida communities as
well as other Haudenosaunee territories. Mobility has not erased a feel-
ing for the homeland for those Oneidas who live in settlements outside
New York State, as travel among Wisconsin, Canada, and New York have
strengthened connections to the homeland for all Oneidas. As evidence
of a common idea of the homeland, all three Oneida communities have
been active and in many ways have shared in a land claim for the Aborigi-
nal land base in New York State for much of the twentieth century.
The Oneidas brought to their new homes many of their belief systems

Tsi¥niyukwaliho¥tΛ 261
of community well-being and kinship relationships that had existed prior
to removal, alongside cultural practices such as planting corn, beans, and
squash. When they arrived in Wisconsin, their hereditary chiefs and po-
litical system were in flux. Once in Wisconsin they did not openly prac-
tice the cyclical ceremonies of the longhouse, though some continued to
practice in secret. Political meetings continued to be held in the Oneida
language well into the middle of the twentieth century, though it is clear
that Oneida political beliefs and governing structures were in transition
and that those changes further developed in their new environment in
Wisconsin.8 These transformations became further embedded in Wiscon-
sin as the community became more the Oneidas of Wisconsin and many
regarded their tenure there as more or less permanent. Much of this was
a necessary component for nation building in Wisconsin, and the diffi-
culties of removal had made that clear to anyone who thought of simply
leaving and going to yet another place. Any further tribal discord thus
needed to be worked out in Wisconsin, not an easy feat for a commu-
nity under stress from removal and with differing views and responses to
American colonialism.
Some community adaptations have contributed to a view of the Wis-
consin Oneidas as being a community that is mired in conflict, with in-
creasing assimilation as the result. In 1974 Campisi observed in his re-
search that the Wisconsin “Oneida is a Christian society. There is no
longhouse nor is any of the Iroquois ceremonial cycle practiced.”9 While
this may be a question of access to Longhouse practitioners as opposed to
a definitive statement on the belief systems of all Oneidas in Wisconsin,
it sums up one accepted assessment of the Wisconsin Oneidas as Chris-
tian and assimilated. Others have emphasized the factionalism among
the Oneidas and Haudenosaunee, particularly in the period prior to re-
moval.10 For much of the twentieth century, the open and public absence
of longhouse ceremonies and hereditary chiefs and Clan Mothers leads
many to assume that the Wisconsin Oneidas have had a substantive and
absolute break with the Haudenosaunee, of which citizenship is in part
based on participation in the longhouse.11
Transnational issues within the Confederacy have contributed to this
image of the Wisconsin Oneidas. The Oneidas, as a whole, occupy a con-
tested role in the Confederacy. Their assistance to the colonists during

262 ackley
the Revolutionary War has been represented by the Wisconsin and New
York Oneidas as something to be proud of and as indicative of their long-
lasting relationship with the United States. Conversely, others have framed
this support as a potential weakening of the Confederacy.12 In addition,
the Wisconsin and New York Oneidas’ aggressive economic pursuits in
casino gaming and their adaptive forms of government (the oxymoronic,
“newly traditional” structure of the New York Oneidas and the elected In-
dian Reorganization Act form of government of the Wisconsin Oneidas)
have made them an easy mark for those who feel that the actions by the
Wisconsin and New York Oneida communities threaten Haudenosaunee
sovereignty. The Wisconsin Oneidas have had to define their identities not
only in the context of their own community, or to other Oneidas, but also
in the larger Haudenosaunee world. As a community, they have largely
objected to outside characterizations of them as assimilated and cut off
from the Confederacy. Nowhere is this more evident than in the exhibits
of the onm.

The Oneida Nation Museum: Creating

Separate Space in a Tribal Museum
The Wisconsin Oneidas have worked through this discussion of iden-
tity in the sphere of the onm. They have tried to make their museum for
tribal people and to accommodate and disseminate a narrative that says
that the Wisconsin Oneidas remain Haudenosaunee. Challenging these
attempts is the institutional nature of museums, a tool of American cul-
ture that has been hostile to Native people.
Western museums are a powerful colonizing force. Many have long
placed Native Americans on one end of a continuum as being savage and
the antithesis of Euro-American civility. Robert Berkhofer has argued,
“Whether evaluated as noble or ignoble, whether seen as exotic or de-
graded, the Indian as an image was always alien to the White.”13 Western
museum exhibits typically exoticize and distance the visitor from Indig-
enous people, placing the Native irrevocably in the past. In this view, the
Indian was what the white man was not, the polar opposite of how white
Americans defined themselves. U.S. museums added legitimacy to these
cultural values even as they disseminated them, and are an important tool
in upholding ideas about the exotic other.14

Tsi¥niyukwaliho¥tΛ 263
 Scholars have viewed the Haudenosaunee and their nationalist expres-
sions of sovereignty through this evolutionary lens, placing them on a lin-
ear historical timeline that was somewhat further in progress to other In-
dians, given the value the colonial powers placed on the political structure
of the Confederacy; but the Iroquois were still viewed as well behind the
white man. Some Haudenosaunee people actively sought to use and adapt
this image. Wisconsin Oneida author Laura Cornelius Kellogg argued in
1920, in her book Our Democracy and the American Indian, that the con-
cept of democracy had its roots in the Haudenosaunee, “who planted the
first seed of civilization in the land — just as my fathers who first dreamed
of democracy on this continent.”15
Lewis Henry Morgan, whose 1851 League of the Ho-dé-no-sau-nee, Iro-
quois is often seen as the first modern ethnographic study, saw white men
as the successors to the Iroquois. This idea of the vanishing Indian meant
that Morgan felt free to take on attributes of the Haudenosaunee in a fra-
ternal literary society, donning Native dress in what Deloria has called
“playing Indian.”16 The idea of evolution necessitates a comparison, and
Indigenous cultures invariably come up as lacking on the model used by
early anthropologists and museum curators.
U.S. museums are critical in upholding certain ideas of the nation, for
they are one tool by which a community from divergent backgrounds is
able to “imagine” a shared past and future, to borrow from Benedict An-
derson. They provide an avenue for building a nation-state with a coher-
ent view of the past.17 Exoticism and primativism subsequently manifest
in the ways that museums exhibit people from other cultures, as this re-
inforces a view of the nation as one that is uncontested in its primacy
and legitimacy. In most cases, this evolutionary view of cultures excuses
conquest and colonialism, presenting such histories as being inevitable
(if tragic). Manifest Destiny and perceptions of the frontier contribute
to a shared national ignorance of the harm such belief systems have on
Indigenous people, as they are translated into policies such as allotment,
the reservation system, and boarding schools.18
Tribal museums are charged with the difficult task of challenging offi-
cially sanctioned views of history that most non-Natives unquestioningly
believe; simultaneously, they try to create and maintain a place for their
own people to learn about their stories of the past. They directly confront

264 ackley
the nationalizing intentions of Western museums that treat Natives as
savage and extinct, existing only as a footnote to a U.S. national story of
exceptionalism.
In the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, concerned with
physical survival and the continuance of their communities and ways
of life, Native people often entrusted museums with items of significant
cultural patrimony for fear they would end up in private collections. In
these cases, Native people did not receive them back for many years, if
at all.19 People working on behalf of museums commissioned, bought,
and outright stole from Indigenous communities in a frenzy of collecting
from “vanishing” cultures at the end of the nineteenth century.20 This has
led to a great distrust of museums, which are rightfully seen as part of a
larger imperial project, places exclusively for non-Natives. The image of
the museum as a place that holds your ancestors’ bodies and epitomizes
the cultural theft of your people is not a place that you are likely to visit.
It has been very difficult to change this representation of Indigenous
people in museums that are controlled by non-Natives, though in recent
years museum theory and practice have incorporated a critique of exhi-
bitions of Indigenous people. Museum practices may incorporate such
new techniques as shared curatorial practices with Indigenous people.21
Although the authority of museums has been contested as a result of this
critique and shared practices, many tribes found that even if they had pos-
itive relationships with the non-Native staff of museums, they still were
in an unequal power relationship that contributed to the continued dis-
possession of their people. Legislation and policies, particularly the Na-
tive American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act of 1990, have not
solved this problem. For some museums, there is still a belief that Native
people will not care for cultural items properly, which in Western terms
is focused mainly on preservation. Some curators may no doubt cringe
at the thought of repatriated items turning to dust on a remote mesa, un-
able to accept that those items are completing their life cycle. In this way,
“the museum became an inescapable contact (conflict) zone.”22
In contrast, tribal museums can provide the space for the representa-
tion of more authentic narratives about the past of Indigenous people and
point the way toward the future. They provide an important voice for the
tribe’s stories, history, values, and beliefs. In his study of the Mashantucket

Tsi¥niyukwaliho¥tΛ 265
Pequot Museum and Research Center in Connecticut, which opened in
1998 and is today the largest of the tribal museums in the United States,
Bodinger de Uriarte argues that “Pequots continue to develop a narrative
of cultural continuity and belonging, both for a reinforced sense of com-
munity on the reservation and as a counter to critiques of their cultural
legitimacy.”23
Though the literature on the relationship of Indigenous people to non-
Native museums is substantial, as is a critical analysis of the portrayal of
Indigenous people in museums, research on tribally controlled and oper-
ated museums is comparatively smaller. One reason for limited (though
growing) sources that focus on specific tribal museums may be that they
are a relatively recent development, tied to a rise in the past few decades
in tribal control over the way their history and culture is represented to
the outside world. For many of these tribes, increased economic devel-
opment from their tribally owned casinos has allowed them the opportu-
nity to build museums and cultural centers that are focused on the com-
munity as well as on research and exhibition. These places are visited by
tribal members and scholars interested in their resources, as well as by
tourists and educational groups.
It was in the context of countering non-Native museums that the Wis-
consin Oneidas decided to open their own tribal museum. The onm was
created under a Bicenntennial Grant in 1976 and opened its doors in 1979.
It holds a significant collection of Oneida material (the Shako:wi Cul-
tural Center of the Oneida Indian Nation of New York State is another
museum devoted specifically to the Oneidas). The collection was started
with community contributions as well as with the purchase of items from
local artists. The onm permanent holdings were later supplemented with
a large purchase of Oneida materials from the now-defunct Turtle Mu-
seum in Niagara Falls, New York. The onm’s staff particularly prize a six-
foot man made entirely of cornhusks by Oneida artist Irvin Chrisjohn,
while the general collection includes some 1,500 material culture objects
(including black ash baskets, Iroquois pottery, raised-beaded traditional
clothing, water drums, and snowsnakes), 500 photographic materials, 50
audiotapes and 500 videotapes containing an ongoing oral history proj-
ect with Oneida elders, and a papers archives.24
The onm was among the first tribal museums. In 1989 there were only

266 ackley
twenty-five tribally owned and operated museums. Today, museums and
cultural centers, created and controlled by Native Americans, have expe-
rienced a period of expansion and construction — one source estimated
there to be about 120 tribal museums in 2005 and many more in the plan-
ning stages.25

The Opening of the Oneida Nation Museum: Building

a National Identity Linked to the Haudenosaunee
The Wisconsin Oneidas purposely called their new museum the Oneida
Nation Museum. Doing so asked people to think of the Wisconsin Onei-
das as a nation, and the onm complicates that by expressing in their ex-
hibit space and through sponsored events the idea that they are a nation
linked to the Haudenosaunee. A great deal of attention has been paid to
the ways in which people imagine and construct an ordered narrative that
allows people to conceive of a shared past and identify things in com-
mon that they might not otherwise conceptualize. To define this as a so-
cial process is essential to understanding the ways in which Indigenous
communities have defined themselves as nations. Too often Native Amer-
icans have been relegated to the periphery of the modern nation-state,
either romanticized or had their assimilation sanitized by arguments that
it was for their own good. A large part of American national identity has
this myth as its bulwark. When an Indigenous nation is viewed as a cul-
tural artifact — as opposed to solely a political, economic, or geographic
one — the subsequent analysis allows for an inclusion of those who are
excluded from this narrative through erasure, enforced invisibility (hid-
ing in plain sight), or outright decimation.
Tribal museums stress a national identity by telling stories that are
based on their unique cultures and histories. The Haudenosaunee have
been active nationalists from their early dealings with outsiders — view-
ing themselves as individual nations that are linked politically and spiri-
tually as a confederacy. The image of the Confederacy as a government,
military power, culture, and spiritual authority defined the sovereignty
of its member nations in their interactions with outside groups. In addi-
tion, a number of activists in the twentieth century claimed these nation-
alist ideals in grassroots political activism, and others continue to do so.
One name by which they are known, Six Nations, stresses this nationalist

Tsi¥niyukwaliho¥tΛ 267
emphasis. The Oneidas also sought to build a nation out of the extreme
dislocation and diaspora that brought them to Wisconsin, balancing the
life they had left with the one they would live in the new reservation.26
In many ways, the Oneida reservation at Duck Creek, Wisconsin, is
both geographically and psychologically far from the homelands of New
York State. Travel and mobility of the Oneida people keep both a connec-
tion to the Aboriginal territory and a Haudenosaunee identity possible
for Wisconsin Oneida members. One way the Wisconsin Oneida govern-
ment has sought to remain close to its Aboriginal territory is to sponsor
what they call “Homeland Tours,” first held in the mid-1980s. These tours
take Oneida community members (usually from both the Wisconsin and
Thames communities) by bus to sites in New York State to visit and ex-
perience places of historic significance to the Oneidas. In a video made
in 1996 that documented the tour, these sites were recorded as powerful
places that still remained so for the Wisconsin Oneidas. The hold of the
homeland was palpable, evident in the tears and emotions that overtook
many of the participants. For some people, it was surprising that they
would be affected that viscerally by a place.27 It is the same for members
of the Thames Oneida community.28 In 2007 onm staff members accom-
panied the Homeland Tour, setting up a photo display and small exhibit
for the participants to view while in New York.
Audra Simpson discusses how the meaning of nationalism is trans-
lated and transformed daily “on the ground” by those narratives in the
community where boundaries and borders are understood to be linked
to policy, culture, tradition, location, and a wide variety of affairs for the
Kahnawake Mohawks.29 The Wisconsin Oneidas are very similar. Many
individuals on the Homeland Tours had not realized how connected they
were to both the places in New York State and to other Oneidas from dif-
ferent communities until they traveled there as a group. Records from the
Homeland Tours provide accounts of nationhood from the participants,
which are explicitly informed by their relationships to other Oneidas and
Haudenosaunee people.30
The interplay and stress between the local (Wisconsin Oneidas), na-
tional (the three Oneida communities), and transnational (Haudeno-
saunee) may be challenged and reconciled by community processes. Some
of the characteristics appear to be immutable, while some ideas of identity

268 ackley
are much more fluid. Some of this is directly related to the mobility of the
community and its members, as travel affects the ways in which they view
authenticity. Primarily, the interpretation of Haudenosaunee identity has
thus far been composed of largely conservative values, intent on proper
adherence to the teachings of Handsome Lake and the Peacemaker.

Challenges to the Oneida Nation Museum:

Reconciling Competing Discourses
There is an ineffable quality to tsi¥Λ·niyukwaliho¥tΛ, likely because of its
multiple meanings. It is important to emphasize the sometimes impossible
task of museums to present a coherent narrative out of what are always
fragmented and at times conflicting stories. Tribal museums are no dif-
ferent in this respect, and the process by which the onm mediated these
divisions and incorporated these stories was complicated at the outset.
One of the first exhibits of the onm was directly challenged by some
of the Wisconsin Oneidas. At the center of the dispute was an exhibit of
Haudenosaunee Medicine Masks, along with accompanying information
that explained their healing roles in the Longhouse society. By virtue of
providing the information to outsiders, the exhibit seemed to place the
entities in the past, which was an affront to Wisconsin Oneidas who were
active in establishing the longhouse in the community. In addition, the
exhibition and explanation of the entities are forbidden, for Haudeno-
saunee Medicine Masks are viewed not as static objects but instead are
imbued with a force that must be carefully used only by those who are
trained to do so. Some people have called the entities “False Face” masks,
though the Hatuwi and longhouse members consider this to be a derog-
atory term. They are instead known as the Grandfathers or the Ancient
Ones and are used only by those individuals within that belief system.
Any further knowledge of the medicine masks lies with its members, and
boundaries on their interpretation and knowledge transfer are enforced
strictly. To transgress these ideas is to violate Haudenosaunee beliefs and
sovereignty.31
Members of the onm Advisory Board and staff responded to the com-
munity critique by arguing that these particular Medicine Masks were
made for commercial purposes, not spiritual ones. They defended the
exhibit as one of scholarly interest, one that was not meant to infringe on

Tsi¥niyukwaliho¥tΛ 269
the belief systems of tribal members.32 That they were exhibited was il-
lustrative of significant differences and competing ideas in how the Wis-
consin Oneidas would represent themselves and their history in the onm.
Since many Wisconsin Oneidas did not practice this belief system at the
time of the onm opening (though they have steadily grown in numbers
since then), there may have been an assumption that it was acceptable to
exhibit them. In this situation, neither intent nor Oneida control over the
onm mattered to longhouse community members, for they would have
protested the exhibition in any case.
This was a serious dispute on acceptable knowledge transmission that
needed to be reconciled before the onm could be accepted by the com-
munity. If the Wisconsin Oneidas were to consider themselves Haudeno-
saunee, continuing the exhibit might be an obstacle, since most Haude-
nosaunee are in agreement on the prohibition of exhibiting masks. The
Chiefs Council of the Confederacy, the traditional governing body of
the Haudenosaunee, has clarified their stance on the display of medicine
masks. It leaves no doubt that the exhibition is forbidden, as is the pur-
suit of knowledge about them by those who were not members of the
longhouse medicine society, stating, “The exhibition of masks by muse-
ums does not serve to enlighten the public regarding the culture of the
Haudenosaunee as such as exhibition violates the intended purpose of the
mask and contributes to the desecration of the sacred image.” In addition,
knowledge is proscribed and “the non-Indian public does not have the
right to examine, interpret, or present these beliefs, functions, and du-
ties of the secret medicine societies of the Haudenosaunee.”33 Those who
protested the exhibit also did so in terms that challenged the standard
anthropological view that every part of a culture is open to the public, in
part to provide the opportunity for community dialogue on the issue.34
The decision to display the masks (or, at a minimum, exhibit photo-
graphs or written descriptions of their use) is problematic, for scholars
have already written about them extensively.35 Non-Natives were not al-
ways excluded from ceremonies of the longhouse, particularly in the first
half of the twentieth century, as they are generally today. Many of these
studies were researched before the 1970s, and some seem concerned more
with an ethnographic documentation of the form of the ceremonies and
the Medicine Masks and less with their healing function and power in
the longhouse. In many of these studies, there is virtually no self-reflex-

270 ackley
ive examination of what the prohibition means or of what breaking the
prohibition does to the belief system of the community. In the early days
of the exhibit, there was an attempt to explain the motivations behind
the exhibit by onm staff, which at least demonstrated an understanding
of the impact the public exhibition would have on the community.36 Be-
cause some outside scholars are less accountable to the communities they
research, they may have had the luxury to disregard the impact of this
dissemination of knowledge in a way that the onm, as a tribal museum
controlled by the community, did not.
To separate the medicine masks from the community in which they
function renders the practice and the belief system incomprehensible. In
recent years, the Grandfathers have been repatriated back to Haudeno-
saunee nations from several major non-Native museums, although many
more still remain outside the community, held in various museums, gal-
leries, and private homes. In addition, there are still individuals who make
them for commercial sale.37
There is a healthy level of respect for the Grandfathers, for to do oth-
erwise is to disturb the balance and harmony for which a community
strives. This is common in other Indigenous societies as well. For these
reasons, Wisconsin Oneida members protested the opening of the exhibit
at the onm in 1979 and at various times afterward. Linda E. Oxendine, in
her discussion of the onm and the controversy surrounding the exhibit,
relates how one Oneida community member attributed the exhibit to a
de facto boycott of the onm by many tribal members in the early years
of the museum’s operation. Tribal members did not want to enter into a
place with such an exhibit. They were afraid.38
Tensions between those who understood the history of the medicine
masks as something primarily outside of Wisconsin and therefore in the
past and those who are reclaiming this belief system is still evident. Many
tribal members do not wish to directly discuss the episode.39

Ideas of Authenticity Translated into the

Exhibits of the Oneida Nation Museum
Shadowing this controversy, and indeed fueling it, was a parallel revital-
ization in the 1970s of the longhouse ceremonies, first openly held in 1983
after more than a century in Wisconsin without them.40 The ceremonies

Tsi¥niyukwaliho¥tΛ 271
imbue those practitioners with spiritual authority in issues related to the
Longhouse and the relationship of the Wisconsin Oneidas with the rest
of the Confederacy. Faced with intense outside pressures for change and
mindful of the ongoing effects of colonialism, tribal members who par-
ticipated in these early ceremonies were particularly conservative in up-
holding traditional ways of being. They maintained boundaries in order
to more effectively implement the longhouse in the Wisconsin Oneida
community. As such, they were strenuously against the exhibition of the
Haudenosaunee medicine masks.
They succeeded in affecting change at the onm. Responding to com-
munity complaints, a new board of directors at the onm eventually took
down the display, effectively ending much of the conflict; although, un-
til 1993 a painting remained that presented stories about how the entities
were brought to the people.41 Today there is no overt discussion of the
masks in the exhibits at the onm, though mention of healing ceremo-
nies is made in a painting in the small longhouse exhibit that houses the
hands-on area of the onm. To illustrate how completely the controversy
was reconciled by the onm, it is worth noting that some of those individ-
uals who protested the initial exhibit later became employed by the onm
and the Oneida Cultural Heritage Department, which is the governmental
division that houses the museum, language program, historical research,
repatriation, the library, and the historic preservation program. The pro-
testers were incorporated into the administration of those cultural institu-
tions that preserve and shape the ways in which the Oneidas of Wisconsin
view their history and move toward their future. For many, their values
are essentially a merging of Wisconsin Oneida and Haudenosaunee tra-
ditions. In addition, some of those people who at first supported the ex-
hibit came to cede authority to those who have more knowledge of such
things, viewing it as a struggle they do not understand and therefore do
not have the ability or the desire about which to make decisions. Though
the discourse of the Haudenosaunee medicine masks was primarily within
the tribal community, it was inextricably linked to outside factors.
The onm eventually took to their responsibilities respectfully and dili-
gently. During my brief tenure at the onm, as a college student more than
a decade ago, the medicine masks were being cared for in accordance
with the wishes of the traditional community. In a period of transition,

272 ackley
they were still technically accessible by museum staff but were subject to
unique curatorial practices that took into account their status as animate
beings who needed certain things: air, respect, corn. They were located
very near me while I was working on an inventory of the onm collection.
However, I felt no need or desire to work with them, because even with-
out a clear understanding at that time of their meaning and relevance, I
felt wary of them.
Ultimately, the tribal dispute in this case was a positive social force.
The outcome and mediation of the conflict was not guaranteed, but it is
indicative of the ways that the Wisconsin Oneidas are able to reconcile
conflict and incorporate dissent in the community. Some of the underly-
ing opposition was not fully resolved, and it is unrealistic to assume that
a diverse community will agree on everything. In this way, factionalism
can be a seen as continual, if episodic, rather than as a solely negative
force. Though some might view those people who initially supported the
exhibit as having been assimilated and those who did not as somehow
“more” Oneida, this study cannot support that claim. Acculturation and
tradition are not fixed positions that can be assigned to certain groups
of people; rather they are a fluid force through which people navigate in
their understanding of “the what and the how” in being Oneida.
Indigenous people have had to struggle with living up to ideas of au-
thenticity that have been imposed by non-Natives. Native people have
well learned outsiders’ expectations, even while simultaneously contesting
them. Non-Natives have the power to hold Native Americans to unreal-
istic and damaging standards in determining what makes an “authentic
Indian.”42 But Indigenous people have not been passive victims without
agency. They effectively help to shape the discourse of what is authentic
and what is not, able to shape outsiders’ perceptions of them even as they
are often on the losing side of vastly unequal power relationships.
There are certain community mechanisms that privilege a Haudeno-
saunee identity for the Wisconsin Oneidas. These locations serve to au-
thenticate what are considered to be valid expressions of Haudenosaunee
identity. The longhouse community, the ongoing land claim, and the onm
all play roles in the ongoing recognition that the history of the Wisconsin
Oneidas encompasses more than just the geographic place of Wisconsin.
Outside factors continue to change the ways in which the reclamation of

Tsi¥niyukwaliho¥tΛ 273
tradition manifests in the community. To better understand the ways in
which Indigenous people revitalize tradition, one might study the pro-
cess of “the working through of a history among now radically dislocated
and subordinated people, rather than the fortunate resurgence of a sub-
dued essence.”43 In this way, Wisconsin Oneida ideas of tradition and au-
thenticity are inextricably linked to and thus affected by colonialism and
American imperialism.
This does not mean that there is anything less “real” about tradition
and tsi¥niyukwaliho¥tΛ, but it does mean that an analysis of the forces
that affect how tradition is viewed is important. In the longhouse belief
system of contemporary Wisconsin Oneidas, there is still an emphasis
on the proper interpretation of the original instructions that were given
to the Oneidas at the time of creation and that focus on the relationship
to the natural environment and connections to others.44 This is uniquely
interpreted based on the history of the Wisconsin Oneida community.
Similarly, the community is the context that is necessary to understand
the exhibits of the onm. The site of the onm is therefore critical to the un-
derstanding of the meanings of the longhouse replica.

Tsi¥niyukwaliho¥tΛ: Situated in a Sovereign “Safe” Space

Late June and early July is typically a busy time for the onm. The Wiscon-
sin Oneidas host a large, annual contest powwow that attracts hundreds of
dancers. General Tribal Council meetings, a parade, tribal elections, and
the annual Oneida Days are also held during this time. The onm partici-
pates by hosting the Oneida Cultural Festival, a one-day event that typi-
cally has exhibits, artist demonstrations, Oneida hymn singers, and Long-
house smoke-dance competitions. In 2007 a Native country-and-western
band ended the day. These events serve together to remind people that
the Oneidas still exist as a culturally distinct people, adapting and main-
taining their identity within the contemporary context.
The physical location of a museum is crucial to a discussion of the ways
in which it is experienced.45 The onm is a scripted space that represents an
Indigenous identity to Wisconsin Oneidas as well as non-Oneidas. This
space encompasses the grounds of the onm as well as the exhibits inside.
When visitors walk outside, the longhouse replica is immediately in front
of them. If they look just down the road, they can see both tribal housing

274 ackley
and a tribally owned gas station and convenience store. Thus, one is con-
fronted with the sovereign space of the Wisconsin Oneida reservation.
How one perceives the longhouse replica is dependent upon the recogni-
tion of Oneida sovereignty.46 In some cases, visitors cannot help but view
the longhouse replica in the context of the living culture of the Wisconsin
Oneidas. If visitors are lucky, at some times of the year they will go out-
side and see singers, dancers, artists, and food — part of the various com-
munity events that are sponsored by the onm throughout the year, not
only in the summer. There might be someone tending the garden or pre-
paring to walk on a nature path that is designed to foster both traditional
ecological knowledge as well as the materials for baskets or carvings. All
of these activities that occur on onm grounds emphasize the boundar-
ies of the space in which a tribal museum is located. It is not a museum
in Milwaukee or Chicago — instead, it is located in the sovereign space of
Oneida, Wisconsin.
Tribal control over the onm is paramount in any consideration of the
history and culture represented — it changes the discourse and analysis
substantially. The stories tribal museums tell and to what extent they chal-
lenge the dispossession and colonization of Indigenous people are ways
of exercising cultural sovereignty.47 Many tribal museums do so by em-
phasizing stories that demonstrate the continued existence of their peo-
ple. This provides insight into how tribes may adapt the institution of the
museum to more adequately represent “their ways.” In discussing how
tribal control of the Makah Cultural and Research Center privileges local
knowledge, Janine Bowechop and Patricia Pierce Erikson identify how
the Makah language became a way to organize the storage of excavated
objects from the Ozette archaeological site, in contrast to established cu-
ratorial practices that would most likely take place in a non-Native mu-
seum. Instead of storing the objects by size or function, for example, the
Makah names for the items were used to organize them linguistically. In
some cases, the objects, though similarly named, did not necessarily fit
with how someone might arrange them. Their relationship was only dis-
covered when the translated names were compared. Through this pro-
cess, the language and its underlying meanings and relationship to Makah
ways of knowing was privileged and revitalized. At that point, the authors
argue, the Makah Cultural and Research Center became particularly sig-

Tsi¥niyukwaliho¥tΛ 275
nificant for the Makah people. “This adaptation of the museum — to ex-
pand the preservation goals beyond the preservation of artifacts to the
preservation of a living culture — is an essential component of the Indi-
genization of the mainstream museum model.”48
In a similar way, the onm has moved from the purely visual aspect of
museum exhibition, which relies on the passive reception of the viewer,
to one that also includes language classes, workshops, cultural dances,
and socials. Through the addition of such practices, it becomes a poten-
tial site for nation building and decolonization. Many non-Native muse-
ums have incorporated more experiential exhibits and ways to connect
with the community, though it seems particularly appropriate for tribal
museums to function also as community centers.
Further study is needed on how tribal museums represent their com-
munities and histories in comparison to how they represent other Indig-
enous people. For example, how the onm presents its exhibits and stories
as opposed to how the Shako:wi Cultural Center of the Oneida Indian
Nation of New York presents theirs would provide an interesting discus-
sion on how the two historically and culturally related communities view
nationalism and Haudenosaunee identity. There are major differences as
well as connections between the two communities. Significantly, com-
paring two tribal museums will turn the lens from a Native versus non-
Native emphasis to one that more fully encompasses the complicated and
contested ways in which Native people are linked to one another.
There are characteristics of the Wisconsin Oneidas that differ from
other Haudenosaunee nations: citizenship that recognizes the ancestry
of both the mother and father; governing style; geography; and inter-
est of community members. These are not insignificant considerations,
and they deeply complicate and divide the membership of the Wiscon-
sin Oneidas as they create and discuss the stories of the Oneida Nation.
Somewhat countering these barriers are the institutions of the Wisconsin
Oneidas, where people actively represent a Haudenosaunee identity. The
onm is not the only place where this affinity and link to other Oneidas and
Haudenosaunee people can be experienced. An ongoing land claim, the
Oneida Language Revitalization Program, and the Oneida tribal schools
are only a few of the more obvious places that stress this relationship.
Current onm staff members emphasize that they want to provide a safe

276 ackley
space in which to learn about being Oneida and about the myriad ways
that this information can be interpreted.49 The stories people tell about
themselves, their culture, and history are diverse and are often in conflict
with one another; so the ways that the onm can mediate these conversa-
tions without alienating a large proportion of the community require a
delicate process of continual negotiation. This means that the onm tries
to provide opportunities to rethink and adjust their exhibits and events.
Every January, for example, the onm is closed to most visitors in order to
undergo a period of reflection and renovation. New exhibits and ways to
connect with the community have emerged from this time.50 In this way,
onm staff members recognize the importance of the process of creating,
as well as the exhibit content itself. Given that ka¥nikuli·yó (“the Good
Mind”) is a process rather than a state of being, the onm’s ongoing efforts
to create a safe and meaningful space for Wisconsin Oneidas are particu-
larly appropriate and further evidence of tsi¥niyukwaliho¥tΛ.
Oneidas who don’t live in the area come to visit the onm as one way
to connect with the community; this happens especially in the summer
around the time of the annual powwow, when a great many of them re-
turn home to visit family and stay in touch with who they are as Oneida
people. The onm, therefore, exists as a place for the nonlocal Oneidas to
affiliate not only with the Wisconsin Oneida community but also with
other Oneidas and Haudenosaunee people. Out of the 15,000 tribal mem-
bers, nearly 6,000 live outside the state of Wisconsin, while over 6,000
tribal members live either on the reservation or in the surrounding two
counties.51 There is almost an equal number of those who can access the
reservation community easily and those who cannot. This creates a deli-
cate balance in how members understand themselves as Oneida. In 2007
it is much “safer” for Indigenous people to connect with their language
and culture, relative to a century ago when assimilation policies limited
the extent to which one could freely do so. It is a privilege to have spaces
like the onm, spaces that were fought for and that still remain because of
the tireless efforts of people who valued these things. To maximize the
benefits of these spaces, they cannot be used unreflexively. Indigenous
people need to think about what it means to have these spaces if they are
to be of the best use.
Reflection on the meanings of tsi¥niyukwaliho¥tΛ is evident in the ex-

Tsi¥niyukwaliho¥tΛ 277
hibits of the onm and the longhouse replica. The longhouse is used for
functions that are geared toward both Oneidas and non-Oneidas. Visi-
tors to the onm typically engage with the longhouse. At the culmination
of most tours, weather permitting, onm staff members take visitors to the
longhouse replica for storytelling. It has also been used for events that
are limited to Oneida participants, as in a recent workshop on Haude-
nosaunee gender roles and responsibilities. Participants noted that being
in the longhouse, “changed the tone of the meeting.” In this workshop, a
discussion of Haudenosaunee women’s roles was transformed when they
were in the longhouse replica. In the facilitator’s view, the longhouse envi-
ronment seemed to transport the participants to another place and open
their minds to the words that were being spoken, allowing them to better
experience the “how” of being Oneida.52
For the Wisconsin Oneidas, “our ways” are rooted in a connection with
other Haudenosaunee. This kinship exists in much the same manner as
does the longhouse replica in front of the onm: it is an enduring reminder
of a shared past, but one that must be continually rebuilt and shifted to
accommodate the changing needs of the community.

Notes
Arlen Speights, Mario A. Caro, and Carol Cornelius helped bring clarity to the
paper with their generous and thoughtful comments. It could not have been com-
pleted without the assistance of the staff of the Oneida Nation Museum and
the Cultural Heritage Department in Oneida, Wisconsin. YawΛ¥kó.
1. At its inception, the museum was named as the Oneida Nation Museum.
In recent years, the Oneida Nation of Wisconsin has been consciously reclaim-
ing the Oneida language, and most tribal operations now have Oneida names.
Tsi¥niyukwaliho¥tΛ (“this is our way,” or “our kinds of ways”) is the Oneida name
for the Oneida Nation Museum. However, while some tribal operations are known
exclusively by their Oneida names, such as the Kalihwisaks (“She Looks for the
News”) newspaper and TsyunhehkwΛ (“It Provides Life for Us”), a traditional
and natural food and health products center, tribal members continue to call oth-
ers, like the Oneida Nation Museum, by the names they were originally given.
I refer to Tsi¥niyukwaliho¥tΛ as either “the onm” or “the museum,” since that is
the way most Wisconsin Oneidas will recognize it. Because the focus is on
nationalism, authenticity, and kinship to other Haudenosaunee, the concept of
tsi¥niyukwaliho¥tΛ is also briefly explored.

278 ackley
 2. Akwesasne Notes, ed., Basic Call to Consciousness, rev. ed. (1978; repr., Summer-
town tn: Native Voices, 2005), 85.
3. Frieda J. Jacques, “Discipline of the Good Mind” (unpublished paper in author’s
possession).
4. For an argument against tribal governments such as the Wisconsin Oneidas as-
serting jurisdiction in New York State, see Robert Odawi Porter and Carrie E.
Garrow, “Legal and Policy Analysis Associated with Migrating Indigenous Peo-
ples: Assessing the Impact on the Haudenosaunee within New York State,” Work-
ing Paper Series No. 05-1 (Syracuse ny: Syracuse University College of Law, Janu-
ary 25, 2005).
5. The other nations are Cayuga, or Gayogoho:no (“People of the Great Sawmp”);
Seneca, or Onödowága (“Keepers of the Western Door”); Onondaga, or Onoñda¥-
gehᥠ(“People of the Hills”); Mohawk, or Kanien’kehaka (“People of the Flint”);
and Tuscarora, or Sgarooreh’ (“Shirt Wearing People”).
6. Laurence M. Hauptman, Conspiracy of Interests: Iroquois Dispossession and the
Rise of New York State (Syracuse ny: Syracuse University Press, 1999), 31.
7. Reginald Horsman, “The Origins of Oneida Removal to Wisconsin, 1815–1822,”
in The Oneida Indian Journey from New York to Wisconsin, 1784–1860, ed. Lau-
rence M. Hauptman and L. Gordon McLester III (Madison: University of Wis-
consin Press, 1999), 53.
8. Jack Campisi, “The Wisconsin Oneidas between Disasters,” in Hauptman and
McLester, The Oneida Indian Journey, 76–79. For an analysis on the continuity of
the Oneida Chiefs Council and the continuation of Longhouse ceremonies, see
Carol Cornelius, “Continuous Government of Oneidas in Wisconsin” (unpub-
lished paper, Oneida Cultural Heritage Department, Oneida wi, 2004).
9. Jack Campisi, “Ethnic Identity and Boundary Maintenance in Three Oneida Com-
munities” (PhD diss., State University of New York at Albany, 1974), 184.
10. See Barbara Graymont, The Iroquois in the American Revolution (Syracuse ny:
Syracuse University Press, 1972).
11. For an intriguing discussion on the rights and responsibilities of Haudenosaunee
people, see Robert Odawi Porter, “Haudenosaunee Citizenship” (paper presented
at the 2007 International Citizenship Conference, Syracuse University, April 28,
2007), http://www.law.syr.edu/academics/centers/ilgc/iicc_agenda.asp.
12. Doug M. George-Kanentiio, Iroquois on Fire: A Voice from the Mohawk Nation
(Westport ct: Praeger, 2006), 82–83.
13. Robert F. Berkhofer Jr., The White Man’s Indian: Images of the American Indian
from Columbus to the Present (New York: Vintage, 1978), xv.
14. For an examination of typical exhibition models of Native Americans, see James
Nason, “‘Our Indians’: The Unidimensional Indian in the Disembodied Local
Past,” in The Changing Presentation of the American Indian (Washington dc:
Smithsonian Institution, 2000), 34–39.

Tsi¥niyukwaliho¥tΛ 279
 15. Laura Cornelius Kellogg, Our Democracy and the American Indian (Kansas City
mo: Burton, 1920), 23.
16. Philip J. Deloria, Playing Indian (New Haven ct: Yale University Press, 1998),
77.
17. For an analysis of the ways in which specific conceptions of the nation are dis-
played in museums, see David Boswell and Jessica Evans, eds., Representing the
Nation: a Reader; Histories, Heritage and Museums (London: Routledge, 1999).
Also, for an examination of the disciplinary boundaries of art museums and the
manner in which such places can be considered “ritual structures,” see Carol Dun-
can, Civilizing Rituals: Inside Public Art Museums (London: Routledge, 1995).
18. Most Americans believe, or believed, in the “Vanishing Indian” image. For an ex-
amination of how this myth contributed to a view of the American West, see Pa-
tricia Nelson Limerick, The Legacy of Conquest: The Unbroken Past of the Ameri-
can West (1987: repr., New York: W. W. Norton, 2006).
19. Harold Faber, “ny State Will Return Wampum Belts to Onondagas,” New York
Times, August 13, 1989.
20. For a discussion of the rise of salvage anthropology and the rise of the anthro-
pology museum between 1875 and 1905, see Douglas Cole, Captured Heritage:
The Scramble for Northwest Coast Artifacts (Norman: University of Oklahoma
Press, 1985), 286–88.
21. Christine F. Kreps, Liberating Culture: Cross-Cultural Perspectives on Museums,
Curation, and Heritage Preservation (London: Routledge, 2003), 92–96.
22. James Clifford, Routes: Travel and Translation in the Late Twentieth Century (Cam-
bridge ma: Harvard University Press, 1997), 207.
23. John Joseph Bodinger de Uriarte, “The Casino and the Museum: Imagining the
Mashantucket Pequot Tribal Nation in Representational Space” (PhD diss., Uni-
versity of Texas at Austin, 2003), 64.
24. Rita Lara, personal communication with author, Oneida Nation Museum, Oneida
wi, August 9, 2007.
25. Jack McNeel, “Museums of the Nations Blossom across the Country,” Indian Coun-
try Today, August 9, 2005.
26. Laurence M. Hauptman and L. Gordon McLester III, Chief Daniel Bread and the
Oneida Nation of Indians of Wisconsin (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press,
2002), 99.
27. Oneida Homeland Tour Videos, 1995–96, videocassette (Oneida wi: Oneida Land
Claim Commission, 1996).
28. For a discussion of the Thames Oneidas on a similar trip, see Madelina Sunseri,
“Theorizing Nationalisms: Intersections of Gender, Nation, Culture, and Colo-
nialism in the Case of Oneida’s Decolonizing Nationalist Movement” (PhD diss.,
York University, 2005), 274.
29. See Audra Simpson, “Paths toward a Mohawk Nation: Narratives of Citizenship

280 ackley
 and Nationhood in Kahnawake,” in On Political Theory and the Rights of Indig-
enous People, ed. Duncan Ivison, Paul Patton, and Will Sanders (Cambridge: Cam-
bridge University Press, 2000), 113–36.
30. Oneida Homeland Tour Videos, 1995–96.
31. I am indebted to Tonya Shenandoah, July 10, 2007, and Bob Brown, August 6,
2007, for their thoughts.
32. Linda E. Oxendine, “Tribally Operated Museums: A Reinterpretation of Indig-
enous Collections” (PhD diss., University of Minnesota, 1992), 154.
33. “Haudenosaunee Sacred Masks/Sacred Objects Policy,” Akwesasne Notes 1 (Spring
1995).
34. Carol Cornelius, personal communication with author, Oneida wi, September
13, 2007.
35. Many sources are by non-Haudenosaunee scholars, though their informants were
typically Haudenosaunee, some of whom individually gave the researchers gen-
erous permission to write about the ceremonies. It is not my intention in this
study to transgress contemporary prohibitions, so I discuss these sources gener-
ally only in terms of method and not for their specific content.
36. Oxendine, “Tribally Operated Museums,” 153–54.
37. Richard Hill Sr., “Reflections of a Native Repatriator,” in Mending the Circle: A
Native American Repatriation Guide, ed. Barbara Meister (New York: American
Indian Ritual Object Repatriation Foundation, 1997), 72.
38. Oxendine, “Tribally Operated Museums,” 154.
39. This discourse can perhaps only be fully understood by those who are directly in-
volved. I respectfully discuss the conflict here because it shows how it was medi-
ated and reconciled within the onm. The resolution demonstrates that the onm
is a place where representing a Haudenosaunee identity is important.
40. Oneida chiefs were “raised,” or installed as leaders with the appropriate titles, in
1925 and again in 1933 but the legitimacy and authenticity of these events has been
questioned. See Kristina Ackley, “Renewing Haudenosaunee Ties: Laura Corne-
lius Kellogg and the Idea of Unity in the Oneida Land Claim,” American Indian
Culture and Research Journal 32, no. 1 (2008) 57–58.
41. Oxendine, “Tribally Operated Museums,” 154.
42. Paige Raibmon, Authentic Indians: Episodes of Encounter from the Late Nineteenth-
Century Northwest Coast (Durham nc: Duke University Press, 2005), 39–40. Raib-
mon has an excellent and insightful discussion of the ways in which the Kwakwa-
ka’wakw and Nuu-chah-nulth were active and showed agency in creating shared
meanings of authenticity, which holds implications for other Indigenous people.
43. Stuart Hall, “Culture, Community, and Nation,” in Boswell and Evans, Represent-
ing the Nation, 41.
44. See John C. Mohawk, Creation Story: John Arthur Gibson and J. N. B. Hewitt’s Myth
of the Earth Grasper (Buffalo ny: Mohawk, 2005).

Tsi¥niyukwaliho¥tΛ 281
45. For a discussion of the ways in which visitors engage with the National Museum of
the American Indian, see Mario A. Caro, “You Are Here: the nmai as a Site of
Identification,” in “Critical Engagements with the National Museum of the Ameri-
can Indian,” ed. Amy Lonetree and Sonya Atalay, special issue, American Indian
Quarterly 30, nos. 3–4 (2006): 543–57.
46. I am grateful to Mario Caro for sharing his research in Mario Caro, “Rethinking
Dioramas: Sovereignty and the Production of Space” (unpublished paper in au-
thor’s possession, 2007)
47. Amanda J. Cobb, “Understanding Tribal Sovereignty: Definitions, Conceptual-
izations, and Interpretations,” American Studies 46, nos. 3–4 (2005): 127.
48. Janine Bowechop and Patricia Pierce Erickson, “Forging Indigenous Methodol-
ogies on Cape Flattery: the Makah Museum as a Center of Collaborative Re-
search,” American Indian Quarterly 29, nos. 1–2 (2005): 268.
49. Lara, personal communication, August 9, 2007.
50. Carol Cornelius, personal communication with author, Oneida wi, August 7,
2007.
51. Oneida Tribal Enrollment Department, Oneida Tribe of Indians of Wisconsin
Membership Information, Unpublished Report, Oneida wi, June 2007.
52. Cornelius, personal communication, August 7, 2007.

282 ackley
10
Reimagining Tribal Sovereignty
through Tribal History
Museums, Libraries, and Archives
in the Klamath River Region
brian isaac daniels

There are a number of curious ironies in the burgeoning number of tribal

museums, libraries, and archives among Indigenous communities across
the United States. In the nineteenth century, nation-states employed mu-
seums and archives to preserve particular aspects of culture in order to
inspire a sense of a common history for the nation. By demarcating what
was official history and culture and by training citizens to treat the past
and its representative objects as official and definitive, states encouraged
the formation of a homogenous, ideological community that could be-
come a governable entity. Museums, libraries, and archives were intended
to instruct those who ventured within their walls. These institutions
marked official history and culture; they trained people to view objects
in particular ways; they taught a narrative of the past; and they offered
ways with which to understand the present. As part of this effort, in the
United States, museums preserved sacred Native American objects and
lands in order to illustrate the “taming” of the wilderness and “triumph”
of American civilization over its Indigenous peoples.
This nineteenth-century narrative has been rightly challenged through
the advocacy of Native American activists and their academic allies since
the civil rights era of the 1960s and 1970s. New museum exhibitions and
cultural research programs are now undertaken after careful consultation
and collaboration with Native people, who have insisted upon a voice in
how they are represented and interpreted. Many Native American tribes
have gone further to control their heritage. These communities, whose

283
histories were once erased by nationalist institutions, have formed their
own cultural heritage programs and created a new wave of tribal muse-
ums, libraries, and archives.
There are important questions that are worth asking about this phe-
nomenon, pointed questions about mutations of national ideology. If in-
stitutions like museums, archives, and libraries were once part of an ap-
paratus that institutionalized sovereignty at the level of the nation-state,
what happens when similar institutions appear among local tribal com-
munities? How might these institutions shape tribal conceptions of sov-
ereignty? It would be good to examine how tribal museums, libraries,
and archives reshape the conceptions of sovereignty within the tribe, and
thereby recast the role of preserved information, culture, and history in
community life. Cultural preservation, which parses “authentic” and “sa-
cred” culture from its vernacular contexts, can enable novel forms of po-
litical debate, strategic organization, and rights-based legal claims. At the
same time, it can transform the self-description and presentation of tribal
communities and the identity of its members.
In this chapter, I consider the development of tribal museums, ar-
chives, and libraries in the Klamath River region, a remote corner of
northwestern California. The Klamath River seems an unlikely place to
begin a discussion of the complexities of tribal sovereignty and history
with the rise of casino-funded tribal museums and the high-profile place-
ment of the National Museum of the American Indian on the National
Mall in Washington dc. However, this secluded river canyon is the site
for two significant legal cases about the cultural rights of Native Ameri-
cans. Tribal communities first asserted a right to cultural preservation
under the American Indian Religious Freedom Act of 1978 for the Kla-
math River High Country. Furthermore, two tribal communities in this
region have had a long-running feud about the rights they hold upon res-
ervation lands. Here, I outline the historical circumstances of these legal
battles and the consequences that they have wrought for tribal commu-
nities. In the aftermath, tribal communities worked to develop their own
cultural heritage programs, citing an imminent need to document and to
save the culture around them. How tribal archives, museums, and librar-
ies have flourished in the Klamath River — and the different permutations
that they have taken — speaks to the ways that documentation promises

284 daniels
a cultural renaissance of a different kind than the nationalist museums,
archives, and libraries of another historical era. Individually, the Hupa,
Yurok, and Shasta tribal communities have employed cultural documen-
tation for their own ends.1 While these tribes live near each other in the
Klamath River area, their different histories and political situations have
engendered different strategic uses of their respective museums, libraries,
and archives. Why these institutions take the differing forms that they do
points to the variety of solutions to problems of Indigenous sovereignty
that can be found in the control of information about culture and history.

Culture in Court
The importance of heritage institutions today cannot be understood with-
out reference to the historical context from which they emerged. The
tribal museums, libraries, and archives in the Klamath River region all
developed during the last quarter of the twentieth century in tandem
with the litigation of two court cases. Jesse Short et al. v. The United States
and Lyng v. Northwest Indian Cemetery Protective Association together
demonstrated the necessity and utility of the idea of culture as an orga-
nizing principle. These cases exposed local ideas about culture to Amer-
ican legal structures, and their outcomes are still debated among Native
Americans in the Klamath River region. Moreover, they influenced the
ways in which museums, libraries, and archives were structured by tribes
throughout the area.
The first case has its origins in the formation of the Hoopa Valley Res-
ervation. In 1864 the Indians now called the Hupas and the Yuroks were
placed together upon a single, integrated reservation, in which all Indians
were entitled to equal property rights. However, when the Hoopa Valley
Tribe came into existence as a formal organization in 1950, only enrolled
members of that tribe were eligible for income from timber profits. The
Yurok were ineligible for these payments and resisted forming an orga-
nization similar to the Hoopa Valley Tribe because they claimed to be
members of the Hoopa Valley Reservation. A legal suit filed in 1963 by
sixteen aggrieved, self-described Yuroks demanded that timber sale pro-
ceeds benefit all the Indians on the reservation regardless of tribal affili-
ation. By 1967 Jesse Short et al. v. The United States included over 3,000

Reimagining Tribal Sovereignty through Tribal History 285

claimants and their descendants. Their suit was ultimately successful in
1972, when the U.S. Court of Claims ruled in the Yuroks’ favor.
The court had a remedy in mind to correct for years of underpayment
to Yuroks. It established a trust fund while enrollment criteria were de-
veloped in order to determine who, precisely, was a Yurok and who, pre-
cisely, was a member of the Hoopa Valley Tribe, in a reservation and a re-
gion where both tribes had long intermarried. Although the core decision
survived successive challenges throughout the remainder of the 1970s and
1980s and the Bureau of Indian Affairs attempted to implement a series of
plans to satisfy the decisions, a final settlement was reached by the 1988
Hoopa-Yurok Settlement Act. This act divided the reservation into two
parts, split the trust fund, enjoined the Yuroks to form their own tribal
government, and laid out the criteria of who would be eligible to be an
Indian on either reservation.2 “Yuroks” were now legally subject Yuroks;
“Hupas” were now legally subject members of the Hoopa Valley Tribe.
But there was a caveat. In many cases, self-described Hupas became le-
gal Yuroks and vice versa. New legal subjectivities came with conferred
rights from each respective tribal government. It became the task of each
new sovereign Indian nation, over the overriding ethnic concerns, legal
entanglements, problems of enrollment, and bureaucratic pitfalls, to fos-
ter a sense of national identity, imagine a new community, and form the
instrumental technologies that are governmentality.3 In sum, each nation
had to forge Indian citizens with a vested pride in their specific heritage,
despite the fact that Yuroks and Hupas share in many of the same reli-
gious practices and speak mostly English.
Unlike Jesse Short et al., which addressed what rights can be derived
from divisive ethnic-identity politics, the second lawsuit demonstrated
the necessity and vulnerability of culture in the legal life of Indigenous
communities. In the late 1960s the U. S. Forest Service conceived a plan
to construct a seventy-five-mile road between the small towns of Gasquet
and Orleans in an area slated for logging. Abbreviated to an optimistic
euphemism, the go-Road, as it came to be known, would have cut through
the heartland of the High Country — the place where Native American
doctors in the Klamath River region have long gone to learn their healing
powers and to communicate with the spirit world. But before any con-
struction could take place, the culture that might be destroyed had to be

286 daniels
properly documented and recorded. The Forest Service commissioned a
number of reports detailing the Native American use of the High Coun-
try, with varying results. One archaeologist authored a report asserting
the land’s spiritual sterility; other anthropologists argued for its contin-
ued vitality to local Native Americans. When the Forest Service finally
overrode the recommendations of anthropologists not to build the road,
citing a compelling national interest to fell timber in the region, a con-
glomeration of Indian activists organized under the banner of the North-
west Indian Cemetery Protective Association. They filed suit against the
Forest Service, citing an avalanche of violations to the National Historic
Preservation Act; the Federal Water Quality Control Act; the Wilderness
Act; the Administrative Procedure Act; the National Forest Management
Act of 1976; the Multiple Use, Sustained Use Act; and, perhaps most sig-
nificantly, the First Amendment and the American Indian Religious Free-
dom Act, better known as airfa.
Signed into law in 1978, airfa made it the “policy of the United States to
protect and preserve for American Indians their inherent right of freedom
to believe, express, and exercise the traditional religions of the American
Indian, Eskimo, Aleut, and Native Hawaiians, including but not limited
to access to sites, use and possession of sacred objects, and the freedom
to worship through ceremonials and traditional rites.”4 The go-Road be-
came the legal test case for the law; and the plaintiffs were successful in
the initial circuit and appellate court decisions, with the help, so some
Yuroks say, of some furious medicine making prior to key testimony. The
go-Road was finally stopped when the lands were designated by legislative
fiat as wilderness; but the Forest Service, asserting its ability to override
airfa, appealed its case to the U.S. Supreme Court in Lyng v. Northwest
Indian Cemetery Protective Association. Here, the Indians lost their case.
Writing for the majority on a split decision, Justice Sandra Day O’Connor
opined, “The Free Exercise Clause [of the First Amendment] is written in
terms of what the government cannot do to the individual, not in terms
of what the individual can exact from the government. Even assuming
that the Government’s actions here will virtually destroy the Indians’ abil-
ity to practice their religion, the Constitution simply does not provide a
principle that could justify upholding respondents’ legal claims.”5 In effect,
the Court found that Indians’ beliefs were protected, but not their prac-

Reimagining Tribal Sovereignty through Tribal History 287

tices; or, more bluntly and perhaps more realistically, Americans, Indian
or otherwise, could believe whatever they might like but held no consti-
tutional guarantee that they should be able to act upon their deeply held
convictions. In practical terms, the decision was moot, and the go-Road
turned into what locals call the no-go Road. But Lyng nevertheless be-
came a precedent for future legislation and litigation about matters con-
cerning Native American religions and cultural preservation.6
Despite the setback of the Lyng decision, what became apparent to the
tribes throughout the Klamath River area was the political power of cul-
tural documentation. Culture could define communities; it could provide
a legal framework for protecting sacred lands; it could offer a justification
for the persevering and organizing politics. These legal decisions were
followed by a cultural renaissance that witnessed the revival of tribal tra-
ditions, the repatriation of artifacts to the tribe, the resurgence of tribal
language programs, and a renewed interest in tribal traditions. But in or-
der for all of this to happen, culture had to be known. It was, of course,
already known by the tribe’s elders and ritual leaders. However, culture
had to be publicly known, and it became the role of the political leaders
to invest in cultural documentation. The rise of tribal museums, libraries,
and archives in the Klamath River is linked to the needs of tribal commu-
nities to create and to control outward representations of their culture.

Displaying Culture
Among the Native American communities in the Klamath River area, the
Hoopa Valley Tribe has developed the public display of its culture most
fully. The Hoopa Tribal Museum came into existence in 1972, when the
Economic Development Administration, under the U.S. Department of
Commerce, funded the construction of a shopping complex in the center
of Hoopa Valley. The complex is the locus of community life and includes
the tribal court, the grocery store, the post office, the only hotel for miles
around, and the museum itself. The museum is modest, approximately
1,500 square feet in size. Almost from its inception, there have been plans
to enhance its size and stated mission. In the 1980s, at the time when the
Hoopa-Yurok Settlement Act and Lyng v. Northwest Indian Cemetery Pro-
tective Association were pending, the tribe sought to update its museum by
hiring a consultant to lay out a plan for a new cultural center. The costs,

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however, proved to be prohibitive, and the tribal council and the museum
director have since worked to raise enough funds to expand the museum
and promote its place in community life.7 Nevertheless, it is the presence
of the museum, and its material holdings in the heart of the reservation
community, that elevates it to such importance.
The museum houses a collection of materials from the cultural life of
the Hoopa Valley Tribe. There are elaborately woven baskets, stone tools,
deerskin clothing, and ceremonial regalia on display in glass cases. The
tribal communities in this region are renowned for their headdresses that
are made from hundreds of flaming-red woodpecker scalps and their
mounted albino deer hides, each of which is used, respectively, as part of
the Jump Dance and White Deerskin Dance in the month of September.
These spectacular objects enter the museum from a variety of sources.
The museum owns approximately one-third of its collection, purchased
primarily from non-Indian collectors and augmented in recent years by
successful repatriations of dance regalia from the Peabody Museum at
Harvard University. The remaining two-thirds of the collection is on long-
term loan from families who live on the reservation, who perceive the
museum as better protected against fire and theft than their homes, as
able to provide expert care for sacred material, and as a place to proudly
display family heritage.8 This last factor is essential. Native Americans in
the region explain that regalia “cry” to be danced, to be put into use, to
be a part of daily life. Owning regalia has long been a marker of status
within the community; it is a sign that the bearer is descended from one
of the families that had a right to possess and to dance with it. There are
some religiously prescribed occasions for display, like the Jump Dance
and White Deerskin Dance days. Loaning family regalia to a museum is
an opportunity to display regalia on a permanent, year-round basis and
to thereby index a family’s status within the community and their full em-
brace of their cultural heritage.
The Hoopa Tribal Museum describes itself as a living museum, a place
where objects are preserved and stored until they leave the museum to
be used in a cultural event. In this sense, it acts as a repository of objects
and of knowledge rather like a safety deposit box. Its purpose is to safe-
guard heritage in order to make it accessible to people on the reservation

Reimagining Tribal Sovereignty through Tribal History 289

and those few who come to visit. There is a spiritual element to the kind
of care that the museum provides; curatorship entails responsibility be-
cause the objects are suffused with supernatural power and danger.9 But
by caring for objects and by gathering them together in an institution that
is different than familial custody, the museum provides a unique venue
for demonstrating the existence and permanence of the tribe’s culture by
labeling what constitutes the domain of culture itself. Like all museums,
the Hoopa Tribal Museum must select what goes on display, what will be
taught to the audience, and what interpretations it will provide. The issue
of audience begs a fundamental question. For whom is this museum in-
tended? Like many tribal museums on reservations that are far-flung from
urban centers, the museum is not exactly on a main highway. Nestled in
the mountain valley bottom where the Trinity River empties into the Kla-
math, the Hoopa Valley Reservation is 330 miles north of San Francisco,
the last 60 miles of which are over winding mountain roads. The region
has a rugged character that discourages all travel, and for this reason the
idea of “public” display constitutes a remarkably small and particularly
intent audience.
Most people come to the tribal museum because they have another rea-
son to be at the tribal shopping complex where it is located. They might
have business with the tribe, have shopping to do at the grocery store,
desire a chance at Indian bingo, or visit their post office boxes. But when
Native people do come to the museum, they have a chance to talk to each
other in their own language, to reminisce about their traditional culture,
and to teach the traditional ways to anyone in their tribe who is willing to
learn.10 While public school groups from Humboldt County occasionally
come to visit, this living museum is nevertheless conceived as primarily
sustaining the culture of the Hoopa Valley Tribe through the act of ele-
vating what is unique about Hupa culture, distinct from the realm of or-
dinary experience. By acting as a repository for the material exemplars
of cultural life and providing a space in which discussion about those ex-
emplars can occur, the tribal museum demonstrates an ideal of what cul-
ture should be. The museum is therefore a site in Hoopa Valley in which
Hupa culture becomes pronounced, fixed, and visible. It is a place where
the Hupas tell a story about themselves to themselves, and to anyone else
who is willing to listen.

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Documenting Culture
Downriver from Hoopa Valley, the Yurok Indian Reservation runs the
length of the Klamath River to the shores of the Pacific Ocean. For over
a century, this stretch was known as the Extension, relative to the main
Hoopa Valley Reservation. Less accessible and therefore less improved
by roads and electric power, the Yurok government has worked since its
1988 split with the Hoopa Valley Tribe to develop and assert its own au-
tonomy as a tribal authority. In a place where all development is conspic-
uous, the new tribal government’s headquarters incorporates the design
of a plank dwelling house, with the modern conveniences and decor of
a corporate office. Yurok tribal leaders have been explicit in their desire
to engage in an act of nation building so that the community can have a
future as a sovereign tribal entity. Part of this task has involved drafting
a governing constitution for the tribe, one that grants pride of place to
Yurok culture. The Yurok have declared that it is their nation’s task and
purpose to “preserve and promote [Yurok] culture, language, and religious
beliefs and practices, and pass them on to [their] children, [their] grand-
children, and to their children and grandchildren . . . forever.”11 As the
Yurok have developed their tribal government, they have also assembled
the infrastructure for their cultural-heritage programming. Rather than
taking the form of a museum, as with the Hoopa Valley Tribe, the Yurok
have instead turned to the language of neoliberal governance to control
the flow of information about their culture.
Appreciating the bureaucratization of culture among the Yurok de-
mands a familiarity with policies, agencies, and acronyms that have be-
come the parlance of modern governmentality. In 1992 Congress amended
the National Historic Preservation Act to allow federally recognized In-
dian tribes to participate in the governance and stewardship of historic
sites and “cultural properties” on tribal lands. Once a tribe agrees to par-
ticipate in the program, the Tribal Historic Preservation Officer, or thpo,
is charged with identifying and maintaining inventories of culturally sig-
nificant properties, nominating properties to national and tribal registers
of historic places, conducting reviews of government agency projects on
tribal lands, and developing educational programs. Significantly for ques-
tions of sovereignty in the American polity, these duties mirror the bu-

Reimagining Tribal Sovereignty through Tribal History 291

reaucratic functions of a State Historic Preservation Office, or shpo. In
historic preservation, Native American tribes are on equal footing with
state mandates. The Yurok received its thpo status in 1996. With five na-
tional forests, five national wilderness areas, one national park, and addi-
tional Bureau of Land Management properties in the Klamath River area,
there are ample government properties over which the Yurok can make
cultural claims for purposes of preservation. The Yurok thpo is also in-
volved in the governance of its tribal heritage through the California His-
torical Resources Information System, or chris. This state government
agency is responsible for the Historical Resources Inventory, maintained
at county-level information centers. The Yurok thpo, in its state-level
bureaucratic role, is called the Northwest Coastal Information Center,
and is responsible for maintaining the records of cultural and historical
properties in California’s Humboldt and Del Norte counties.
The Yurok thpo is located inside a former Forest Service building, a
few miles north from the Yurok government’s tribal offices. In its guise as
the Northwest Coastal Information Center, it holds records for over 2,000
cultural resource sites, including cemeteries; villages; scatters of stone
chips, flakes, and tools; and sacred sites immortalized in rock, stream, and
mountainside. These sites are cultural and historical “properties” — lands
that have been identified by professional anthropologists, archaeologists,
and historians, and vetted by other government functionaries to meet a
set of criteria for what constitutes the legally cultural and historical. In
order for a site to be deemed significant, it must be included in, or eligible
for, listing in the National Register of Historic Places. The National Reg-
ister is a list of districts, sites, buildings, structures, and objects that are
significant in American history, architecture, archaeology, and culture.12
Fulfilling these demands requires legibility for governmental action. The
map, the survey, and the census have long been employed as tools to en-
trench state power.13 That is to say, state policies of any kind require a de-
gree of prior bureaucratization and knowledge that draws citizens, their
actions, and the landscape itself into the sphere of governmentality. By
mapping the landscape and making visible specifically cultural and his-
torical realms, these sites become targets for acts of governmental action.
The records at the Yurok thpo are primarily site reports that give basic
information about the cultural value of a place and provide a map to mark

292 daniels
the cultural and historical from the ordinary and mundane. Indeed, these
records parse what is sacred in contemporary American democracy from
its profane opposite.
Despite the focus on documenting and preserving cultural heritage,
it is not immediately apparent to whom all of this documentation is im-
portant or even relevant because it is primarily for regulatory and state-
oriented projects. Yuroks assert the need for cultural preservation and
point out that maps of cultural properties can be useful in building roads,
resolving land-claims disputes, or identifying and preserving traditional
sites. However, very few Yurok people need access to the documents that
are held by the archive. What use, then, is the archive? The archive serves
two functional purposes for the Yurok Tribe. It makes visible sites for the
act of preservation through tribal, state, or federal governmental action.
In so doing, it grants to the Yurok tribal government the ability to mark
what is sacred and to fulfill its own constitutional mandate by ensuring
that what is preserved as culture can be passed from children to grand-
children, forever. At the same time, the tribe, by holding the information
on its own reservation, in its own archive, can enact a degree of control
over the flow of information about their heritage, their history, and their
culture. The bureaucratization of culture in the archive has continued
apace with the development of the tribe’s government itself. The prom-
ise of the tribal archive is its potential for knowledge that can be used for
future action for the benefit of the tribe; there is a security in the ability
to know what constitutes culture as much as there is security in knowing
culture itself.

Demonstrating Culture
The Shasta Nation faces different issues regarding its sovereign status alto-
gether. Unlike the Yurok and the Hupa, the Shasta Nation does not have a
reservation. Its ancestral homelands are upriver from the Yurok, along the
Klamath, near the famous, glacier-gouged volcano that bears the tribe’s
name. The community has an unusual political status because the Shasta
Nation falls into the bureaucratic void of “unrecognized” tribes. Although
its tribal members trace their descent back through several generations of
Native American ancestors, kinship alone does not legitimate an Indian
nation in a political sense. Rather, an Indian nation must be recognized

Reimagining Tribal Sovereignty through Tribal History 293

according to law for it to be considered politically legitimate. Heritage
plays a looming role in this determination.
The criteria for federal recognition of an Indian tribe were first issued
in 1978 and took their current form in 1997. All Native American groups
that are not already recognized from older political arrangements and
desire “official” status must meet seven criteria that invite claims about
culture. First, a community must demonstrate its continuous existence
as a political entity since 1900. Second, the majority of members must
constitute a distinct community. Third, the tribal leadership must exert
influence on the community. Fourth, the tribe must have clear member-
ship criteria. Fifth, the membership must be able to demonstrate its de-
scent from a tribe that is historically identifiable. Sixth, all members of
the community must belong solely to that community and not to any
other tribe. Finally, the tribe must not have been legislatively terminated
by Congress.14
There is a significant cultural dimension to each of these recognition
criteria, a dimension that can only be shown through certain kinds of evi-
dence about Indian identity. Identification as an Indian entity by anthro-
pologists, historians, scholars, and in printed academic journals is one
required way to demonstrate “continuous existence.” But providing evi-
dence of a distinct community requires a further explication of the sub-
stance of a community’s culture. A petitioning group must demonstrate
significant in-group marriage “as it may be culturally required,” signifi-
cant social relationships between members, cooperative labor between
community members for shared economic interests, evidence of shared
sacred or secular ritual activity, and, perhaps most significantly, “cultural
patterns shared among a significant portion of the group that are different
from those of the non-Indian populations with whom it interacts. These
patterns must function as more than a symbolic identification as Indian.
They may include, but are not limited to, language, kinship organization,
or religious beliefs and practices.”15 The federal recognition criteria fur-
ther specify that at least 50 percent of the petitioning community must
retain such cultural patterns. In order to be an Indian nation, a commu-
nity must demonstrate how it is different. In effect, culture, as set out by
these legal criteria, becomes the practical means for advancing political

294 daniels
claims about citizenship and its entitlement rights in the multicultural
democracy of the United States.
The Shasta Nation has worked since 1982 to claim formal status as a
recognized Native American tribe, a claim that is subject to evaluation by
the Bureau of Acknowledgment and Recognition. Better known by the
acronym “bar,” this division of the Department of the Interior has a dou-
ble meaning for many self-described Shasta. It is recognized as the gov-
ernmental branch from which rights are granted, but it is also the agency
that will “bar” Indian people from achieving the recognition that they
desire. For many Shasta, being Indian, and therefore their eligibility as a
recognized tribe, hinges upon their historical experience as a discrimi-
nated minority group that shares an awareness of its collective past. Their
identity as Shasta is bound with an understanding that they, as people,
are survivors of a past in which massacres against them were common,
racism was rampant, and bureaucratic decisions threatened to undercut
their sense of belonging to an Indian community. Historical awareness,
however, does not translate easily into the language of governmentality.
The cultural requirements embedded in the seven bar criteria demand
proof through a verification of culture, a kind of certification that is made
possible through the preservation and presentation of documentary ar-
tifacts that link the Shasta to their homelands and to their history. The
Shasta needed and have, therefore, created an extensive archive about
themselves. For whom is this archive important? It is not an archive of
aggregate data, as among the Yurok, controlled by the tribal government
and held primarily for outsiders. Nor is it a museum that reinforces what
Hupa culture is for reservation residents. The onus is on the people who
call themselves Shastas to gather historical artifacts in the hope that they
will have, in their cumulative impact, the political effect of demonstrating
that the tribal nation exists in a legal sense. History dangles the promise
of future sovereignty.
As with all archives, the tangible remains of the past are carefully
housed, preserved, and labeled in order for information to be properly
amalgamated into historical or political arguments. The importance of
this archive is best realized by considering its physical setting in rela-
tion to its carefully tended contents. Located miles away from the near-
est highway over circuitous, unpaved, one-lane roads, the Shasta Nation’s

Reimagining Tribal Sovereignty through Tribal History 295

tribal archive is situated in a rustic, two-room, wooden building with a
wood-fired stove. It includes many of the trappings of a well-equipped
modern archive, with a photocopier, a microfilm reader, and a computer,
all of which had to be brought a considerable distance and maintained.
The archive is a labor of love for the few people involved with it. The cre-
ation of the archive is the brainchild of a woman deeply devoted to her
tribe’s history. For years she has amassed every newspaper, anthropologi-
cal publication, and photocopy of archival microfilm that makes reference
to her tribe. There are complete copies of Indian censuses and enrollment
records, some being 100 years old or more, that are the bureaucratic de-
tritus of another era, which are invaluable to proving descent, marriage,
and tribal continuity. The archive houses contemporary scientific reports
as well — the “gray literature” that is produced by expert consultants and
pertains to Shasta archaeological sites on public lands and the “cultural
resource inventories” that are prepared by government planners. All of
this documentation sits in row upon row of filing cabinets, stuffed full of
bound documents and file folders that hold the potential to someday, and
somehow, defend the political aspirations of the Shasta Nation.

Culture and the Nation-State

We have thus far reviewed the heritage efforts of three Indigenous com-
munities: the Hupa, Yurok, and Shasta. Two are recognized nations, one
with a museum and the other with an archive, which demonstrate the
communities’ full possession of culture. The third is unrecognized and
struggles to unearth every shred of evidence that can legitimate what its
members already know is true: that it is an Indian nation that persists into
the present day. The Hoopa Tribal Museum is concerned primarily with
creating a space that demonstrates culture to the people of its own reser-
vation. It is a public declaration of what it means to be Hupa. Conversely,
the Yurok thpo has a minimal public dimension. It is meant for govern-
ment use; its contents are technical, bureaucratic, and intended for spe-
cialists who generate further information about heritage. In contrast to
the other two, the Shasta tribal archive gathers information with the aim
of making a future legal claim. It is not a location that the public would
visit, nor does it offer a public service. These institutions appear to have
radically different orientations in their purpose and function. What can

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these three Indigenous heritage institutions tell us about the evolution of
museums, libraries, and archives within nation-states?
In order to answer this question, we must first consider the role of mu-
seums, libraries, and archives in nation-states themselves. Among theo-
rists of nationalism, Benedict Anderson has offered a compelling expla-
nation for the impact of institutions like museums and archives in the
process of state building. In assuming roles as guardians of tradition, na-
tion-states linked together the image of an idealized homeland with scien-
tific reports, popular books, and museum displays that were produced by
experts in the social sciences. When coupled with nationalist desires, the
past was mobilized to project an ideal of national unity and greatness. In
this epistemological regime, any object — whether archaeological artifact
or bureaucratic document — must be marked for special attention. The
power of an object is that it is a token instance, a representative of a class
of objects. Archaeological digs, the collection of paintings and sculpture,
and the accumulation of books have all contributed to the formation of
museums and archives. Collecting and preserving artifacts has alienated
them from everyday life and, in an unusual way, sanctified them. They
became what constituted the “sacred” within the secular state. National
patrimony entails not only the assimilation of the past but also its meta-
morphosis into something of national value contained in the museum
and archive. This kind of heritage is not true history, because the past is
made malleable to fit the present needs of state power. It is an invented
tradition of the past that is produced by and for the state to demonstrate
and legitimize its ideological hegemony over an imagined nation.16
Key to this transformation is how a community is imagined, or, more
specifically, the ends to which a community is imagined. Nationalism de-
mands the formation of a novel, homogeneous nation over other possibly
prior ethnic, class, and religious considerations. The nation encompasses
a community that is too large, by definition, for every individual to know
one another. Nevertheless, a national community is defined by what it
holds in common. There are two important points here. First, nationalism
transformed heterogeneous populations into homogeneous communities
that understood themselves as nations. A number of factors contributed
to this historical phenomenon. As we have seen, museums objectified na-
tional treasures, and archives preserved the documents that were relevant
to state power. Other developments shaped nationalism as well: the use of

Reimagining Tribal Sovereignty through Tribal History 297

the census and maps to define a body politic; vernacular languages and
newspapers to spread common reading material; and a uniform concep-
tion of time and history. Taken together, these phenomena encourage an
imagined sense of connectedness with those who are sharing these expe-
riences within the same social polity. Nations demand the formation of
a community’s culture. To be sure, nations are never culturally uniform
and orthodox, despite the persistent efforts of the state. There is, however,
one crucial area that unites a community: the recognition of the state’s
ultimate sovereignty.
We now turn to a second factor that defines nationalism. Nation-states
have sovereign laws that prescribe the political boundaries of the com-
munity and the physical borders of the homeland. The state’s sovereign
power is active within that space, and this power hinges upon the ability
of the state to construct the notion of the homeland and the community
by policing its borders. The sovereignty of the state is paramount and, in
the United States, grounded upon liberal theory that asserts the priority
of rights through the sovereign individual. But individuals are not the
only constituencies within a nation-state. In order to create the cultur-
ally uniform nation, the state must survey, define, and make legible the
heterogeneous mutations to the ideal homogenous state. By so doing, the
state defines the identity groups that challenge the totalizing nation-state.
It also sets the terms of their participation. In present-day multicultural
democracies, ethnic-identity groups like the Indigenous tribes studied
here coalesce in their contemporary forms through their interactions with
nation-states. Native American groups aspire to a primordial status — that
they existed as sovereign nations prior to their historical experience with
nationalism. While it is true that Indigenous groups existed before mod-
ern-day nations, it is equally true that their experience with nationalism
and the laws and sovereignties that have been created by nation-states
has reshaped those same communities. We must understand Indigenous
polities — as well as the museums, libraries, and archives that they cre-
ate — through the lens of nationalism that now focuses the authorship of
new histories.

Culture and Indigenous Sovereignty

Museums, libraries, and archives, whether located in a national capital
or on a remote reservation, share a similar aim. They aspire to the dream

298 daniels
of total knowledge about a particular domain of social experience. These
institutions collect everything that is known about a culture, heritage,
and a people. Complete representation requires documentation, token
instances of powerful objects, and enough information to permit recon-
struction. National museums bring together the objects that unite a peo-
ple. National archives and libraries collect the documentation of gov-
ernment, of a nation’s people, and of national treasures. The state is the
object of representation. Similarly, tribal museums display the objects that
unite a people. Tribal archives and libraries contain the documentation
of culture that the community holds so very dear. In these institutions,
the tribe is the object of representation. States and tribes share the aim of
using the process of representing and preserving their culture as a way
to mark their heritage as an exemplar for the people whom they count as
members. Yet, there are differences that we must consider between tribal
and statist heritage institutions.
Indigenous museums, archives, and libraries are now emerging with
different assumptions about sovereignty than the centuries-old national-
ist museums and archives that defended the nation-state. Statist institu-
tions intended to cultivate a viewing disposition — an attitude toward the
past — that would enhance the prestige and demonstrate the national com-
munity’s homogenous unity. At first glance, there appears to be an aspect
of this phenomenon found in tribal heritage institutions. An important
task for the Native American tribes reviewed in this chapter has been the
very formation of their respective communities. The Hoopa Valley Tribe
and the Yurok Tribe needed to define membership and citizenship for
their respective polities, in order to assert the sovereignty of their tribes.
The Shasta Nation struggles to accomplish the same task. Heritage insti-
tutions are an asset in this task for Indigenous communities, in the same
way that they proved to be useful for nation-states. For this reason, it ap-
pears that the Hoopa Tribal Museum, the Yurok thpo, and the Shasta
Nation’s tribal archive are engaged in an incipient ethnonationalism. By
seeking to transform their communities into what they want them to be,
these tribes specify the boundaries of their polity, the content of their own
cultures, and the grounds of their future sovereignty claims.
However, to view Indigenous polities as merely engaged in the act of
imagining their communities would miss the historical nuances of the

Reimagining Tribal Sovereignty through Tribal History 299

present-day milieu in which tribal museums, libraries, and archives are
developing. Indigenous communities are not simply repeating the same
nationalist process. Instead, Indigenous polities are situating their com-
munities within the prior, entrenched sovereignty of nation-states. For this
reason, the cases of the Hoopa Valley Tribe, the Yurok Nation, and the
Shasta Nation are instructive. These three tribes developed their respec-
tive heritage institutions after their own sovereignty claims were tested
and contested at the level of the nation-state. They are not “imagined
communities” in the sense that students of nationalism have contended.
That idea describes an older kind of nationalism, one that does not ac-
count for contemporary Indigenous politics. Rather, Indigenous polities
are well-justified communities — well justified by the impulse of modern
democracies to be all-inclusive, well justified by the documentation that
demonstrates their existence within nation-states, and well justified by
their assertion of legal rights with historical facts to support their claims
of priority against the nation-state.
This process is reinforced by the bureaucratic heritage institutions that
are found among contemporary Indigenous polities. Tribal museums, ar-
chives, and libraries confirm difference by providing cultural knowledge,
mapping difference, separating cultural property rights from one tribe
to the next, and asserting that a specific tribe is the rightful bearer of a
specific cultural legacy. These facts make Indigenous museums, archives,
and libraries different from their nationalist counterparts. No longer do
these institutions serve the sole purpose of aiding in the imagining of
community. Rather, Indigenous museums, libraries, and archives imag-
ine difference within a multicultural nation-state. Whereas the nation-
state’s heritage institutions have been concerned with demonstrating the
homogeneity of the state, these new institutions place a premium upon
the production of difference and emphasize the heterogeneity within the
nation-state as well as their own autonomy. Indigenous polities like the
Hoopa Valley Tribe, Yurok Tribe, and Shasta Nation must position them-
selves within a framework of American sovereign power — a problem il-
lustrated by the 1988 Hoopa-Yurok Settlement Act and the Lyng v. North-
west Indian Cemetery Protective Association decision. While the sovereign
state encourages the forms taken by these claims, it cannot control the
historical justifications that ethnic identity groups now employ.

300 daniels
 Herein is the final irony. The apparatus that sustained the nation-
state — its museums, libraries, and archives; its professional historians,
archaeologists, and conservators; its legalities that couple rights to his-
tories — are all very easily appropriated. The homogenous narratives re-
quired by nation-states are upended by Indigenous heritage institutions
that use the same means of collection and documentation as their nation-
alist predecessors. In this way, the nationalist enterprise is being compli-
cated by the very ways that were originally devised to sustain it.

Notes
1. The similar terms Hupa and Hoopa are used throughout this chapter, although
they each mean something different. The term Hupa is used to refer to culture
or ethnicity. Hoopa refers to a physical location or political organization in north-
ern California. To illustrate the relationship: the Hoopa Valley Tribe is the legal
name for a group of self-described Hupa.
2. The administrative problems of the Hoopa Valley Reservation and the Yurok Ex-
tension are best known from the Bureau of Indian Affairs’ policy review state-
ment, which the Yurok Nation distributes to outsiders who want to learn some-
thing about the situation. See Lynn Huntsinger and others, A Yurok Forest
History (Sacramento ca: Bureau of Indian Affairs, 1994).
3. By “governmentality,” I refer to the system of governing techniques, methods,
and practices by which a sovereign power produces citizens. The political theory
of governmentality has been expounded upon by Michel Foucault, see Michel
Foucault, “Governmentality,” in The Foucault Effect: Studies in Governmentality,
ed. Graham Burchell, Colin Gordon, and Peter Miller, trans. Rosi Braidotti (Chi-
cago: University of Chicago Press, 1991), 87–104.
4. The American Indian Religious Freedom Act became law on August 11, 1978. Pub-
lic Law 95-341, codified as U.S. Code 42 (1996).
5. Lyng v. Northwest Indian Cemetery Protection Association, 485 U.S. 439 (1988).
6. Thomas Buckley, Standing Ground: Yurok Indian Spirituality, 1850–1990 (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 2003), 170–210.
7. Doris Farris Howell, “Developing an Appropriate Fundraising Plan for the Hoopa
Tribal Museum” (Master’s Thesis, San Francisco State University, 2000), 22.
8. Lee Davis, “Locating the Live Museum,” Museum Anthropology 14, no. 2 (1990):
17.
9. Davis, “Locating the Live Museum,” 18.
10. Davis, “Locating the Live Museum,” 18.
11. Yurok Tribe Const. (Klamath ca: Yurok Tribe, 1993), 5.

Reimagining Tribal Sovereignty through Tribal History 301

12. Section 101 of the National Historic Preservation Act directs the Secretary of the
Interior to expand and maintain a National Register of Historic Places to include
cultural resources of state and local as well as national significance in order to
ensure that future generations have an opportunity to appreciate and enjoy the
nation's heritage. National Register listings must meet the criteria found in National
Parks Service, Dept. of the Interior, Code of Federal Regulations, title 36, chap. 1,
sec. 60.4.
13. James C. Scott, Seeing Like a State: How Certain Schemes to Improve the Human
Condition Have Failed (New Haven ct: Yale University Press, 1998).
14. On the difficulties faced by unrecognized tribes, see Les W. Field, “Complicities
and Collaborations: Anthropologists and the ‘Unacknowledged Tribes’ of Cali-
fornia,” Current Anthropology 40, no. 2 (1999): 193–209; Bruce G. Miller, Invisible
Indigenes: The Politics of Nonrecognition (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press,
2003); and Mark E. Miller, Forgotten Tribes: Unrecognized Indians and the Federal
Acknowledgment Process (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2004).
15. This passage is found in Bureau of Indian Affairs, Code of Federal Regulations,
title 25, chap. 1, sec. 83.7.
16. My discussion of nationalism is influenced by Benedict Anderson, Imagined Com-
munities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, rev. ed. (1983: repr.,
London: Verso, 1991). The sanctification of objects in museums as a part of na-
tionalism is an area that is only beginning to receive the theoretical attention that
it requires. My commentary is based upon David Lowenthal, The Heritage Crusade
and the Spoils of History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998); Krzysztof
Pomian, Des Saintes Reliques à l’Art Modern: Venise-Chicago, XIIIe–XXe Siècle
(Paris: Gallimard, 2003); and Dominique Poulot, Patrimoinie et Musées: L’Insti-
tution de la Culture (Paris: Hachette, 2001).

302 daniels
11
Responsibilities
toward Knowledge
The Zuni Museum and the Reconciling
of Different Knowledge Systems
gwyneira isaac

The A:shiwi A:wan Museum and Heritage Center in Zuni, New Mexico,
was established in 1991 as an institution dedicated to engaging younger
generations in significant aspects of their cultural heritage. The guardian-
ship of knowledge in Zuni is partitioned among clans and religious societ-
ies and is taught on a need-to-know basis in order to ensure the transfer
of associated responsibilities. As a corollary, Zuni expectations privilege
the transfer of knowledge through oral tradition and initiation into these
esoteric societies. During the development of the Zuni museum, however,
tensions surfaced between the Anglo-American and Zuni approaches to
the treatment of knowledge. As a result, the museum faced the challenge
of defining its role within the complex Zuni hierarchy for the mainte-
nance of knowledge.
This inquiry examines how conflicts have arisen between Zunis and
Anglo-Americans over the ways in which responsibility is assigned to the
reproduction of knowledge. To understand these conflicts more fully, I
look at the history of the duplication of knowledge, firstly from Zuni per-
spectives and secondly from Anglo-American viewpoints, reflecting on
areas where these histories engage and values are shared or disputed. I
also examine cultural ideas about the reproduction of knowledge, such as
taboos on duplication, the control of associated technology, and the con-
cept of embodied knowledge. To pursue this inquiry I ask, what are the
different cultural values that are ascribed to the reproduction of knowl-
edge? In order to understand the contexts in which Zunis experience

303
these conflicts between Zuni and Anglo-American knowledge systems,
I focus on the A:shiwi A:wan Museum as the institution through which
these histories and values are negotiated.

A Case History in Duplicates

A recurring theme in my research is the cultural value that is attributed
to the process of the duplication of knowledge. It should come as no sur-
prise, therefore, that my introduction to Zuni was through a series of
photographs of the Pueblo that were created by Bureau of American Eth-
nology (bae) anthropologist, Matilda Coxe Stevenson, and which were
taken during the years 1879–1911. These images now form part of the col-
lections of the National Anthropological Archives at the Smithsonian
Institution; and a duplicate set now exists that was created for the Zuni
museum in 1991 to form their founding collection. The curation of this
duplicate collection, however, is not entirely straightforward. On arrival
at Zuni, the images were assimilated into the Zuni system for the treat-
ment of knowledge; and the collection was divided into two parts with
images revealing ritual knowledge being moved to the Zuni Heritage and
Historic Preservation Office, where access is only granted to the initiated
members of the religious societies.1 The subsequent history of these im-
ages provides insight into Zuni concerns about the mechanical reproduc-
tions of knowledge. From the contemporary contexts and treatments of
these photographs, we are also given a unique opportunity to look at an
identical series of objects in two different cultural contexts and under two
distinct knowledge systems.
The process of reproduction lies at the heart of how knowledge is trans-
mitted, practiced, and circulated; yet the act of duplication has not been
evaluated within theoretical frameworks for the study of knowledge sys-
tems. My aim is to develop a framework that explores how value is as-
signed to duplications, both in their original context and as they traverse
different cultural situations. Two concepts that are relevant to this frame-
work emerge: first, that knowledge is comprehended through the process
of reproduction and, second, that knowledge is embodied both by the
practitioner and by the objects that are produced through the practitio-
ner’s knowledge.
The terms used within this inquiry — copy, duplicate, and reproduction —

304 isaac
are defined here according to this specific framework. Copy and duplicate
refer to something that is made, in appearance, exactly like its original. In
this context these may be produced in large quantities without embody-
ing the knowledge that was required in their original production. For
example, photocopying an Auden poem requires having the knowledge
for operating a photocopy machine, not the knowledge used by Auden
to create the poem. The term reproduction is used here explicitly for the
processes involved in the duplication of knowledge. In addition, I use the
phrase reproductive technology, which is commonly associated with bio-
logical reproduction; however, I introduce it here to refer to the mechani-
cal reproduction of knowledge, such as photographs and film. This is not
designed to conflate two seemingly separate concepts but rather to forge
new ways for us to perceive the efficacy that is assigned to mechanical re-
productions in reproducing cultural values and possibly culture itself.
The responsibilities toward the treatment of knowledge are best un-
derstood as the means that people adopt to ensure the effective transmis-
sion and maintenance of knowledge. It also implies that there is a need
for accountability for the consequences resulting from how knowledge is
used and circulated. In other words, knowledge is ascribed a specific cul-
tural value according to its varied functions as a process for socializing
people.
Thus far, I have introduced a distinct relationship between the processes
that are used to reproduce knowledge, such as photography, and the sys-
tem of knowledge within which it is used. To comprehend the localized
relationships between knowledge and context of use, I choose not to fo-
cus solely on judicial or theocratic areas of power but to emphasize what
I have termed the vernacular approaches to the treatment of knowledge.2
The term vernacular is useful in this context as it connotes language that
is communicated orally rather than through text. The vernacular is key to
understanding some of the tensions between the Zuni and Anglo-Amer-
ican systems. Museums are also recognized as institutions that bridge
formal and informal approaches to education; the concept of vernacular
approaches to knowledge is therefore apposite to this inquiry. Similarly,
it can be viewed as a regional way of doing things that allows for the me-
diation of expectations about how a knowledge system should operate
and how people actually experience it. Once incorporated into a frame-

Responsibilities toward Knowledge 305

work that allows for the cross-cultural examination of the reproduction
of knowledge, vernacular approaches permit a fluid interpretation of both
tangible reproductions, such as photographs, and intangible forms, such
as oral traditions.

Hierarchies of Responsibility:
Zuni Approaches to Knowledge
The Zuni system of knowledge is best understood via theoretical perspec-
tives that take into account the ways in which power is derived from ritual
knowledge. Hierarchies of authority in the Pueblos have often been misin-
terpreted by anthropologists, who perceived political power as largely be-
ing drawn from governmental rather than religious offices. Peter Whitely
opposes this view in his study of Hopi politics, pointing out that “the rea-
son for differing and confusing views of Hopi ethnography lies in the radi-
cal disjunction of Western and conceptual domains (primarily ‘politics’
and ‘religion’), which tend to underpin anthropological thought.”3 In ef-
fect, Anglo-Americans view power as being divided between the religious
and political. Yet in Hopi, “power derives from various sorts of esoteric
knowledge, which carry a high social value.”4
In Zuni, through the use of ritual knowledge, priests have the ability
to affect the well-being of the community, such as peoples’ health, the
weather, and the fertility of crops. While Anglo-Americans may locate
power in governmental offices, Zunis attribute greater power to the priest-
hood. As Whitely points out, “in a society where it is collectively believed
that individuals can control the causes of sickness, death, famine, and so
forth, through supernatural means, the boundaries drawn between ‘su-
pernatural’ and ‘political’ power dissolve into irrelevance.”5 Anthropolo-
gists had also incorrectly interpreted the Pueblos as being egalitarian be-
cause there was no noticeable difference in the distribution of material
wealth. This misreading stems from an inability to understand how sta-
tus is in fact drawn from access to ritual knowledge. As Elizabeth Brandt
suggests, the control of material wealth is not the way in which power in
the Pueblos is determined or measured.6 Ultimately, it is the differential
rights to knowledge that structures the social hierarchy.
Since ritual knowledge is esoteric, it follows that the specific uses of
and approaches toward secrecy are important factors in understanding

306 isaac
how knowledge can or cannot be transmitted in Zuni. Many historians of
the Southwestern Pueblos had assumed that secrecy was only practiced
against outsiders. Anthropologists had also made correlations between
the development of secret knowledge and economic and political power.
For example, according to Hugh Urban, “secrecy is a more easily defined
‘ownership’ of knowledge because it is controlled for economic gain.”7 In
Zuni, however, secrecy is practiced against both insiders and outsiders
and is valued more highly as a pedagogical device than as an economic
one. Within the intellectual architecture that determines the treatment
of knowledge, something is secret because it is powerful, rather than the
customary view that it is powerful because it is secret. For knowledge to
maintain its power requires responsibility in using it appropriately. As a
result, secrecy becomes a vital tool in the pedagogical process and a means
to monitor how knowledge is transmitted and used.
Another essential principle in the Zuni system of knowledge is the
view that knowledge — and in particular, ritual knowledge — is valuable
to the group only if it is used responsibly by the individual. The social
hierarchy in Zuni is not only established according to the possession of
ritual knowledge and therefore the associated power but also in relation
to the level of responsibility that is related to that knowledge. Zunis refer
to membership and priesthood in the religious societies as immense re-
sponsibilities rather than as high-ranking social positions. For example,
the Zuni religious societies consist of four levels, stretching from the in-
dividual to the cosmos itself. The initial layer is made up of the Dikya:we
(“Medicine Orders”), who are responsible for the supervision of medicine
and healing. In the next level, the A:bila:Shiwani (“Bow Priests”) are in
charge of the laws that maintain civil obedience within Zuni, including
the protection of Zunis from external forces and invaders. The subsequent
level of leadership is reserved for the Kodikyanne (“Kachina Leaders”),
who are responsible for maintaining connections with the ancestral spirits
and therefore the welfare of Zunis by overseeing ritual observances. The
highest level, the Shiwani (“Rain Priests”) are accountable for the “wel-
fare of the total Zuni world,” thus being capable of and responsible for
influencing not only the people of Zuni but also the elements of the uni-
verse, such as rain, wind, and all life forms.8 From this schema, we can see
how responsibility increases; and, at the level of the Shiwani, the priests

Responsibilities toward Knowledge 307

are accountable for the entire cosmos. Zunis, however, rarely discuss the
hierarchy of power, but rather the burden of responsibilities taken on by
these individuals for the well-being of the community.
Oral tradition is utilized by Zunis as an effective tool to ensure that as-
sociated responsibilities are transmitted alongside traditional and ritual
knowledge. In this process, instructors can control the context in which
knowledge is transmitted as well as observe and comment on students’
use of this knowledge. It is also viewed as crucial for students to learn the
nature of the instructive frameworks in which the oral tradition is per-
formed, as this is the structure within which knowledge is embedded and
given meaning. In effect, traditional narratives are not merely about the
content of the stories and prayers — they also perform at a metaphorical
level, in which the instructive framework conveys social protocols and
responsibilities portrayed in the stories.
In Zuni today, however, there is apprehension that youngsters may not
be getting the opportunity to learn about and use as much of their tradi-
tional culture and history as earlier generations had done. This is credited
to the fact that wage-earning jobs and schools have widened the gaps be-
tween generations. The demographics of Zuni also reveal that there are
proportionally fewer people represented in the older generations, so the
numbers of extended family who are living in the same house have di-
minished. While the younger generations have voiced that they want the
knowledge, elders are worried the youth will not take on the responsibili-
ties that are associated with its care. They recount how some young men
attempted to record prayers using tape recorders, with the hopes that this
will make them easier to learn. As a result, according to the elders, they
have attempted to assume the knowledge of their teachers without absorb-
ing the associated protocols that are developed through the mentoring
relationship. In speaking about the burden of the responsibility assigned
within religious societies, one member of the community commented
that “a lot of [people] within their lineage don’t really want to participate
because it’s a big, big requirement.”9 These responsibilities include fasting,
separation from family, and extended time spent in the kivas, or religious
societies, many of which may prevent people from maintaining full-time
wage-earning jobs.
Zunis also worry that the broad circulation and dissemination of eso-

308 isaac
teric knowledge by anthropologists and other non-Zunis has threatened
the structure that has been designed to maintain responsibility toward the
transmission and use of knowledge. Once knowledge leaves the contex-
tualizing or socializing process of oral tradition, there is fear that it will
be used for individual gain rather than for the well-being of society.

Mechanical Reproductions and

Anglo-American Ways of Knowing
Aristotle, “who was the first man to collect books, and who taught the
kings of Egypt to set up libraries,” founded one of the earliest institutions
established within European society for the organization of knowledge. 10
It is from Aristotle’s original collection that the term museum is derived.
Significantly, these early collections were based on texts — a practice that
has subsequently dominated the West’s approach to the duplication and
circulation of knowledge. Jack Goody and Ian Watt also noted how the
maintenance of these texts increased people’s ability to notice the changes
that were taking place to society. As a consequence of this assumed stabil-
ity of certain media, museums became accountable not only for the col-
lection of knowledge but also for its preservation. As a result, the indi-
vidual’s responsibility for maintaining knowledge gradually shifted into
the institutionalized maintenance of knowledge.
By the nineteenth century, the European and American scientific com-
munities were wholly engaged with new technologies that allowed them
to explore Enlightenment philosophies through empirical methods. The
invention of new recording techniques such as photography, cartography,
and eventually film were embraced for their technical ability to provide
accurate facsimiles of the world. The overarching schema driving these
endeavors was the belief that all knowledge could eventually be orga-
nized into a coherent whole. “Comprehensive knowledge” was the idea
that “knowledge was singular and not plural, complete and not partial,
global and not local, that all knowledge would ultimately turn out to be
concordant in one great system of knowledge.”11 As a result, technologies
that provided the scientific replication of the world were transported into
the field to produce data that could be easily collected and ordered within
central repositories and reproduced at will.
Throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, models and rep-

Responsibilities toward Knowledge 309

licas were seen as valuable ways for their creators to embody scientific ex-
plorations and the mastering of technological knowledge. Replicas were
also used by anthropologists to experiment with how things were made
and to demonstrate these processes to interested audiences, assuring that
the knowledge circulated widely. Accordingly, anthropologists who were
working in the American Southwest not only emphasized the collection
of artifacts but also found ways to duplicate as much knowledge as pos-
sible, fearing it was to be lost because of the imagined assimilation of Zu-
nis into Western society.
Frank Hamilton Cushing is not only recognized as one of the first an-
thropologists to work in Zuni Pueblo; he may also be credited as one of
the primary ethnologists to experiment with the process of learning ar-
chaic knowledge by reproducing artifacts. In the 1860s in both Britain and
America, there was a growing interest among prehistorians in exploring
the technologies that were used by ancient peoples in their creation of
stone tools. Cushing appears to have been the initial prehistorian in the
United States to experiment with flint knapping. As early as 1879 he gave
demonstrations on the methods that were used to create arrowheads. In
a presentation organized for the American Anthropological Society for
Washington, in Washington dc, Cushing discussed “the knapping meth-
ods he had seen American Indians use and . . . gave a demonstration of
point-making.”12 As a young boy, Cushing devoted time to making rep-
licas of Native American artifacts. His interests were not only in creating
such items but, through that creation, in obtaining an intimate knowl-
edge of their construction and use. In an 1895 article, he writes openly
about this pursuit of experiential knowledge: “If I were to study any old,
lost art . . . I must make myself the artisan of it — must, by examining its
products, learn both to see and to feel as much as may be the conditions
under which they were produced and the needs they supplied or satis-
fied; then rigidly adhering to those conditions and constrained by their
resources alone, as ignorantly and anxiously strive with my own hands
to reproduce, not to imitate, these things as ever strove primitive man to
produce them.”13
According to Jesse Green, Cushing also experimented with “pottery,
basket weaving and the construction of birch-bark and log canoes.”14 John
Wesley Powell, director of the bae, accredited Cushing as the pioneer in

310 isaac
a “new method of research by experimental reproduction.”15 Later in life,
Cushing viewed experiential knowledge as underpinning all of his eth-
nographic methods, writing in an autobiographical note that the method
he had “initiated of ethnologic and archaeologic study by means of actual
experience and experimentation” encouraged him to place himself in the
position of the makers, “not only physically but intellectually and morally
as well, [to] gain insight into their inner life and institutions.”16
Cushing arrived in the Pueblo of Zuni as part of the first ethnographic
expedition that was organized under the aegis of the newly founded bae.
Following a decision by Powell, Cushing stayed behind in Zuni to con-
tinue to collect information on the history, religious practices, and lan-
guage of the Zuni people. In particular, in his desire to reveal the secrets
of the ancient storehouses of knowledge, he eventually sought initiation
into a religious society, the Priesthood of the Bow, using this position
to obtain knowledge of the “inner life” of Zunis that he had so ardently
sought. In a well-documented example of the duplication of Zuni para-
phernalia, he recreated a facsimile of an Ahayu:da, or Zuni War God,
and restored it with a series of associated offerings as a gift for the emi-
nent British anthropologist Edward Burnett Tylor, the curator of the Pitt
Rivers Museum at Oxford University.17 The Ahayu:da was, according to
Cushing, such a faithful replica that it could be considered as a scientific
specimen. Coincidentally, it held political powers for Cushing, as it was
given in order to cement his professional relationship with the influential
Tylor, and demonstrated his intimate knowledge of the religious societies
of Zuni.
The adoption of photography by anthropologists provides a further ex-
ample of the influential role that was played by reproductions in the devel-
opment of scientific methods. From its introduction to the world in 1839,
photography was employed as an effective tool for the collection of data,
and it was rapidly taken up by archaeologists and ethnologists to trans-
port accurate visual information back from the field.18 This is apparent in
the dedicated manner in which Matilda Coxe Stevenson implemented the
camera as part of her fieldwork in Zuni. During the early years of bae re-
search, Stevenson pioneered the use of the camera as an anthropological
tool for observation, eventually taking over 3,000 images of rituals and
daily life in the pueblos. Her correspondence to the bureau demonstrates

Responsibilities toward Knowledge 311

her belief that the camera allowed her to capture dance movements and
complex processes that previously had been difficult to document.19 She
actively experimented with the camera as an instrument that could pro-
vide her with the most accurate visual reproduction of Zuni practices as
well as the means to distribute this research to others.
Cushing’s overt and Stevenson’s subtle methods for reproducing Zuni
knowledge illuminate Anglo-American beliefs about the collection of
knowledge from other cultures. Stevenson met and befriended a Zuni
known as We’wha, who has since received much attention as an example
of a man-woman, or berdache.20 Following a productive research rela-
tionship in Zuni, Stevenson invited We’wha to live with her in Washing-
ton dc to continue to compile an ethnography of Zuni culture and reli-
gion. According to one of the curators at the U.S. National Museum, Otis
Mason, “for six months this woman [We’wha] has taught her patroness
the language, myths, and arts of the Zunis — now explaining some intri-
cate ceremony, at another time weaving belt or blanket under the eye of
the camera.”21 Images of We’wha’s visit to Washington show him demon-
strating each step of the weaving process for the camera, demonstrating
how Stevenson relocated We’wha to Washington dc as the body of Zuni
knowledge.
There has been an ongoing antagonistic relationship between Zunis,
who do not want knowledge circulated outside of its context of respon-
sibility, and anthropologists, whose responsibilities and expectations de-
pend on its broad circulation. For example, when We’wha became aware
that Stevenson was planning to use photographs of sacred objects and
rites for her book, he became “much shocked, for the Zunis . . . do not
think it right to make pictures of such things.”22 This should have come as
no surprise to Stevenson, as her interest in photographing religious cer-
emonies had previously been met with grave disapproval in Zuni. In her
1904 ethnography of Zuni she writes, “The populace were so opposed to
having their masks and rituals ‘carried away on paper’, that it was deemed
prudent to make but few ceremonial pictures with the camera, and the
altars and masks were sketched in color by the writer without the knowl-
edge of the people.”23 Similarly, Cushing was met with zealous attempts
to prevent the sketching of dances: “When I took my station on a house-
top, sketch books and colors in hand, I was surprised to see frowns and

312 isaac
hear explosive, angry expostulations in every direction. As the day wore
on this indignation increased, until at last an old, bush-headed hag ap-
proached me, and scowling into my face made a grab at my book and . . .
tore it to pieces.”24
This history has revealed how Anglo-Americans attributed value to the
duplication and inscription of knowledge, seeing it as an efficient tech-
nique for students and researchers to prove their close understanding of a
particular area, ensuring its preservation and future circulation. As dem-
onstrated, Zunis see reproduction as proof of knowledge and therefore
dangerous if it is enabling knowledge or its embodiments to be removed
from its proper context of responsibility. As a legacy of this history, the
Zuni museum must explore these tensions as it negotiates its position
within the pueblo’s hierarchy of responsibility toward knowledge.

Mediating Responsibilities:
A Museum for the Zuni People
The idea for a museum in Zuni was first envisioned in the 1960s by the
tribal council and members of the Zuni Archaeology Program (zap).25
These groups set out to establish a space that would help them in their
endeavor to preserve the archaeological history of Zuni within the pueblo
itself, rather than have artifacts housed in museums outside of the com-
munity. By the 1970s the community-based Museum Study Committee
shifted this goal by examining the museum concept and discussing how
the conventional Anglo-American museum model posed problems to
Zuni philosophy. In particular, tensions surfaced between external expec-
tations about the display of material culture and internal concerns about
the removal of knowledge from its original context. A number of national
museums had already taken an interest in the development of a museum
in Zuni as a possible place for the relocation of items of a religious na-
ture, which were to be repatriated to the tribe. The Museum Study Com-
mittee, however, determined that “the care and maintenance of religious
and sacred objects was the responsibility of the religious leaders” and that
“such artifacts did not belong in any museum, especially a tribal museum
at Zuni.”26 In effect, ritual knowledge was determined to be outside of the
museum’s area of responsibility.
The history of the A:shiwi A:wan Museum illustrates how Anglo-Amer-

Responsibilities toward Knowledge 313

ican and Zuni approaches to the transfer of knowledge needed careful ne-
gotiation. Since the idea of the museum was first introduced as a means
for conserving archaeological sites and artifacts, the museum has ex-
perienced two important transitions. First, the institution shifted away
from conventional Anglo-American concerns for displaying artifacts and
moved toward representing Zuni interests in exploring living traditions;
second, the present museum director, Jim Enote, began emphasizing ap-
prenticeships as an effective way to transmit knowledge.27
As part of the first transition, moving away from the Anglo-American
museum model, the museum board chose to adopt the ecomuseum con-
cept, which had been developed by the museologist George Rivière.28 This
provided an opportunity to develop an institution that would be more
reliant on local expertise. It also allowed Zunis to explore the traditional
methods that are used to convey or transmit knowledge. Subsequently,
community members, who are responsible for the care of objects of cul-
tural importance, were recognized as the caretakers of the knowledge
about the significance and history of these items. The identification of the
people of Zuni as repositories of knowledge inspired new issues. As much
of Zuni history and living performances of this history are maintained
within ritual societies, the museum would have the problem of finding
ways to educate the youth about their heritage without upsetting the hi-
erarchy for the responsibility toward knowledge. Similarly, the museum
was faced with the challenge of providing knowledge in a manner that
would be appropriate to Zuni pedagogical values, which privilege oral
transmission. In the following section, I provide examples that illustrate
the ways in which the museum mediated between Anglo-American and
Zuni perspectives on the treatment of knowledge. Significantly, all four
examples involve the negotiation of Anglo-American values that are in-
troduced with reproductive technology.
As mentioned previously, in the early 1990s a collection of 3,000 pho-
tographs of the pueblo held at the National Anthropological Archives
was duplicated and transferred to the Zuni museum. Although many of
the images had been accessible to the U.S. public, Zuni religious leaders
were unacquainted with the extent of photographs portraying religious
events. Once members of the community were exposed to these images,
elemental issues surfaced about the role of the museum as a purveyor of

314 isaac
esoteric knowledge. In response, a program was developed by the mu-
seum in which religious leaders from the newly created Zuni Cultural Re-
sources Advisory Team screened these images and separated photographs
that contained esoteric objects, ceremonies, or landmarks. These images
were transferred to the Zuni Heritage and Historic Preservation Office;
and, subsequently, only initiated members of the religious societies were
given access to the photographs.29 Although dividing the photographic
collection applied restrictions that were contrary to national guidelines
guaranteeing equal access, the then director, Nigel Holman, defended the
decision. He argued that it mirrored basic principles of behavior that were
a part of daily life in the pueblo. He contended that acquiring knowledge
in Zuni and, specifically, acquiring religious knowledge came with exact-
ing responsibilities about its maintenance.30 In effect, unless it followed
local protocols for the treatment of knowledge, the museum would not
be accepted by the community.
The second example comes from conflicts that surfaced in the mu-
seum over the use of computers. The purpose of Anglo-American mu-
seums has traditionally been viewed as collecting, interpreting, and dis-
tributing knowledge. Reproductive technologies, such as computers and
videos, are now inextricably linked with the drive to increase access, as
seen in the increasing number of museum Web sites and computerized
databases. In the context of the Zuni museum, however, these modes of
reproductive technology further challenged the Zuni oral transmission
of knowledge, acting as catalysts that pushed staff members to determine
how to maintain knowledge within a public institution.
Following the installation of a computer terminal that would be used to
teach the elements of the Zuni language to younger generations, teenagers
approached staff members with requests to learn particular prayers. Staff
members were comfortable with teaching these prayers; but when it was
suggested that a computer program be developed to provide the prayers,
the staff discussed the various problems that would be presented by this
approach. In particular they would need to assess exactly which prayer
would be appropriate for the context a youth had described and then ex-
plain the responsibilities that accompanied the prayer. This would not be
possible where a youth would only interact with the computer. Within the
Zuni community, those who rely on the oral transmission of knowledge

Responsibilities toward Knowledge 315

hold the view that oral traditions are not merely about the content of the
stories and prayers. Oral traditions perform at a metaphorical level, in
which the instructive framework conveys social protocols that are ren-
dered by the stories. Some members of the community fear that recording
oral history with tape recorders allows the uninitiated to listen without
interacting with the authoritative source of this knowledge. As a result,
the museum staff members have chosen not to develop the computer as
a central device for the dissemination of knowledge.
In a more recent example, Robin Boast, from the Museum of Archae-
ology and Anthropology at Cambridge University, initiated a project in-
volving collections from Kechiba:wa, an ancestral village located outside
of the Pueblo of Zuni.31 The primary objective was to develop a database
using contemporary Zuni views on the collections. Jim Enote, the Zuni
museum director, argued that it was not apposite for Zunis to add knowl-
edge to a database that would be housed outside of Zuni. Instead, he con-
tended, the database could be designed according to Zuni protocols and
housed in the pueblo. While Anglo-American practices view reproductive
technology as a means to broaden access to knowledge, a database, from
a Zuni perspective, often represents the potentially dangerous removal of
knowledge from the system of responsibility. In response, Boast agreed to
these conditions, citing that research that acknowledged the Zuni knowl-
edge system should be prioritized, as opposed to applying incompatible
methodology that only emphasized the content rather than the context
of the databases.32
A fourth example illustrates how the museum staff developed inven-
tive mechanisms for reconciling Anglo-American and Zuni approaches
to recording and reproducing knowledge. In 1997 the museum prepared
a mural to illustrate the origins of Zuni clans. Community members who
visited the museum discussed the five mural panels, and it became prac-
tice that the stories were told alongside the tour of the mural. The paint-
ings now function as iconographic aids to Zuni storytelling. As knowl-
edgeable Zunis or the artists converse with younger generations about the
symbolism of the designs, the mural promotes the use of oral tradition.
In addition, a knowledgeable practitioner can guide someone through
the mural; therefore he or she can control the amount and the context in
which the information is transmitted and thus the associated responsi-

316 isaac
bilities. As a result, the museum project involves younger generations in
the Zuni pedagogical system, combining Zuni viewpoints on and expec-
tations about storytelling together with the museum’s desire to facilitate
the education of the younger generation.33

Conclusions
During repatriation negotiations between the Zuni Tribe and a number
of U.S. and European museums, debates arose over facsimiles of Zuni ar-
tifacts that had been made by anthropologists and hobbyists. Many cu-
rators viewed these as “replicas” or “fakes,” yet Zuni asserted that these
were faithful reproductions of ritual knowledge. The best example of this
is presented by the Ahayu:da that Cushing created for Tylor. Cushing
himself wrote in a draft of a letter to Tylor, “I carved a facsimile of it. . . . I
restored as completely as possible the paraphernalia of the God that this
fetich [sic] might be presented to you just as it is usually to the populace
of Zuni by the Priesthood of the Bow. To me this task was easy as each
year since my initiation into that order it has been my elected province
to make one of another of these same things.”34
Not unexpectedly, Zunis saw the Ahayu:da as a demonstration of Cush-
ing’s embodiment of the knowledge that he had learned from the priest-
hood. The Zuni religious leaders requested for the item to be repatriated,
implying that, if it was a faithful replica complete with paraphernalia, it
was animated by this knowledge and no different from Ahayu:da created
by Zuni priests. A similar request was made to the Museum of New Mex-
ico, which housed a series of replica masks. T. J. Ferguson, Roger Anyon,
and Edmund Ladd, who were consultants within the repatriation pro-
cess at Zuni, suggested, “The Zuni’s criteria of what is ‘real’ and what is
a ‘replica’ or ‘model’ differs from that of non-Indians. The Zuni religious
leaders consider all ‘replicas’ to be sensitive artifacts that should be repa-
triated. . . . The ‘replicas’ were made either by Zuni people with access to
esoteric information or by other people using masks made by Zuni priests
as their model. In either event, the masks embody knowledge and power
that many Zunis consider to be proprietary to Zuni religious organiza-
tions.”35
Since Zunis have presented this particular conception of replicas, re-
actions from museums and curators have been more varied. Following

Responsibilities toward Knowledge 317

explanations by Zunis concerning their expectations about the treatment
of replicas, some of these items have been given to the tribe; yet a num-
ber of museums are concerned that this would set a precedent that will
change the value of “replicas” as understood in Anglo-American terms.
In effect, the fear is that this shift in the meaning and control of the pro-
cess of duplications would restrict the openness that is expected within
scientific exploration. The inability of some museums to resolve these
requests from Zuni also implies that we need to explore more fully how
these different knowledge systems engage and where interests conflict
and overlap.
It is appropriate at this juncture to ask how effective has this framework
been in explaining different approaches to the reproduction of knowledge?
I started by questioning the different cultural values that are ascribed to
the reproduction and dissemination of knowledge. I demonstrated how
nineteenth-century anthropologists working at Zuni subscribed to the
idea of comprehensive knowledge, pursuing technologies such as pho-
tography that aided this endeavor. In this Western cultural context, the
accurate duplication of knowledge allows for wider and more immedi-
ate circulation of knowledge to broad audiences — a factor seen as appro-
priate for scientists who are working on behalf of the general public. In
contrast, Zunis see the maintenance of knowledge as the responsibility
of particular individuals who look after it for the group, so as to protect
them from both the burdens of its maintenance and its potentially dan-
gerous powers. While differences occur concerning how knowledge is
maintained and circulated, both societies see the process of reproducing
knowledge (as opposed to simply copying it) as being analogous to ex-
periencing and embodying it. Once knowledge is reproduced, however,
its treatment differs according to Zuni and Anglo-American protocol. In
Zuni, the duplicate falls under a restricted system of access, while in An-
glo-American contexts, duplicates are purposely circulated to increase ac-
cess to knowledge. We must be careful, however, not to oversimplify the
divide between Anglo-American and Zuni approaches to knowledge or
the technology associated with its reproduction. For example, photogra-
phy should be seen not only as simply an Anglo-American way of know-
ing but also as a technology used by Zunis, often as a means to negotiate
between Anglo-American and Zuni knowledges. For example, when Zu-

318 isaac
nis discovered the amateur Indian hobbyist group the Smokis of Prescott,
Arizona, were imitating esoteric religious dances, their first action was to
travel to the annual show and videotape performances to be used as evi-
dence of this inappropriate use of esoteric knowledge.
The negotiations that are taking place in the A:shiwi A:wan Museum
also reveal how reproductive technologies, such as photographs and da-
tabases, carry with them complex social values originating from each
cultural context. I have shown how the museum found innovative ways
to explore and privilege Zuni pedagogical values. Recent projects that
have been designed at the museum by the director, Jim Enote, provide
further examples of conscious decisions to address conflicts between An-
glo-American and Zuni approaches to reproducing knowledge. In a new
museum project, Zuni artists and experienced elders have been invited
to create drawings of Zuni places of significance.36
Like the museum mural, these cultural “maps” are designed to be in-
terpreted orally by knowledgeable practitioners. What is striking is that
these maps now represent the active building of a repository of mne-
monics within the museum, which is wholly reliant on people for their
transmission of traditional knowledge. In a similar vein, Enote has also
devised apprenticeship programs for Zuni youth to learn from elder farm-
ers, emphasizing the importance of the relationships through which the
appropriate treatment of knowledge is transmitted.37
Locating the process of reproduction at the center of an analytical
framework provides an apt entryway into understanding not only how
people control knowledge but how they assign responsibility to its pro-
duction, reproduction, and circulation. A basic analytical principle also
underlies this inquiry: responsibility is assigned to determine the social
role of knowledge. I have focused here on a specific relationship between
Anglo-American and Zuni knowledge systems and on a specific contem-
porary institution, the A:shiwi A:wan Museum. Through this inquiry,
however, I hope to have demonstrated a framework that provides a closer
understanding not only of the ways in which different values are ascribed
to duplicates but also of how these are negotiated and reconciled within
museums, therefore reconciling these values within a context particular
to the cross-cultural engagement of knowledges.

Responsibilities toward Knowledge 319

Notes
1. Nigel Holman, “Curating and Controlling Zuni Photographic Images,” Curator:
The Museum Journal 39, no. 2 (1996): 108–22.
2. Gwyneira Isaac, Mediating Knowledges: Origins of a Zuni Tribal Museum (Tucson:
University of Arizona Press, 2007).
3. Peter Whitely, “The Interpretation of Politics: A Hopi Conundrum,” Man 22, no.
4 (1987): 696.
4. Whitely, “Interpretation of Politics,” 700.
5. Whitely, “Interpretation of Politics,” 706.
6. Elizabeth Brandt, “Internal Stratification in Pueblo Communities” (paper pre-
sented at the meetings of the American Anthropological Association, Washing-
ton dc, December 4–5, 1985).
7. Hugh Urban, “The Torment of Secrecy: Ethical and Epistemological Problems in
the Study of Esoteric Traditions,” History of Religions 37, no. 3 (1998): 220.
8. Wilfred Eriacho, “Zuni Government” (preliminary study for a Zuni High School
history course, Zuni Tribal Archives and Records Program [ztarp], Pueblo of
Zuni, n.d.).
9. A:shiwi A:wan Museum and Heritage Center board member, personal interview
with the author, Pueblo of Zuni, January 15, 1997.
10. Jack Goody and Ian Watt, “The Consequences of Literacy,” Comparative Studies
in Society and History 5, no. 3 (1963): 332.
11. Thomas Richards, The Imperial Archive: Knowledge and the Fantasy of Empire
(London: Verso, 1993), 7.
12. Lewis Johnson, “A History of Flint-Knapping Experimentation, 1838–1976 [and
Comments and Reply],” Current Anthropology 19, no 2. (1978): 338.
13. Frank Hamilton Cushing, quoted in Johnson, “History of Flint-Knapping Experi-
mentation,” 340.
14. Jesse Green, ed., Zuni: Selected Writings of Frank Hamilton Cushing (Lincoln: Uni-
versity of Nebraska Press, 1979), 7.
15. John Wesley Powell, “Remarks” in “In Memoriam: Frank Hamilton Cushing,” ed.
Frederick Webb Hodge, special issue, American Anthropologist 2, no. 2 (1900):
361.
16. Frank Hamilton Cushing, quoted in Green, Zuni, 6.
17. William Merrill and Edmund Ladd, with T. J. Ferguson, “Lessons for Repatria-
tion from Zuni Pueblo and the Smithsonian Institution,” Current Anthropology
34, no. 5 (1993): 523–67.
18. Elizabeth Edwards, ed., Anthropology and Photography: 1860–1920 (New Haven
ct: Yale University Press; London: Royal Anthropological Institute, 1992).
19. Gwyneira Isaac, “Re-Observation and the Recognition of Change: The Photo-
graphs of Matilda Coxe Stevenson,” Journal of the Southwest, September 22,
2005: 411–55.

320 isaac
20. Will Roscoe, The Zuni Man-Woman (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico
Press, 1991).
21. Otis Mason, “The Planting and Exhuming of a Prayer,” Science 8, 179 (1986): 24–
25.
22. National Tribune, May 20, 1886.
23. Stevenson, Matilda Coxe, “The Zuni Indians: Their Mythology, Esoteric Frater-
nities and Religious Ceremonies,” in Twenty-Third Annual Report of the Bureau
of American Ethnology for 1901–1902 (Washington dc: U.S. Government Printing
Office, 1904), 17.
24. Frank Hamilton Cushing, Zuni: Selected Writings of Frank Hamilton Cushing, ed.
Jesse Green (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1979), 60–61.
25. Roger Anyon and T. J. Ferguson, “Cultural Resource Management by the Pueblo
of Zuni, New Mexico, usa,” Antiquity 69, (1995): 913–30.
26. Museum Study Committee, minutes, Zuni Tribal Archives, Pueblo of Zuni, quoted
in Isaac, Mediating Knowledges, 91.
27. Jim Enote, personal communication with author, Pueblo of Zuni, August 2006.
28. George Henri Rivière, “The Ecomuseum — An Evolutive Definition,” Museum 148
(1985): 182–83.
29. Nigel Holman and Andrew Othole, “Historic Photographs, Museums and Con-
temporary Life in Zuni,” (paper presented at Objects of Myth and Memory Ex-
hibition, Second Culin Symposium, Heard Museum, Phoenix, Arizona, January
30, 1993).
30. Holman, “Curating and Controlling Zuni Photographic Images.”
31. Robin Boast, personal communication with author, October 2006.
32. Boast, personal communication, October 2006.
33. Isaac, Mediating Knowledges.
34. Frank Hamilton Cushing draft of letter to Edward Burnett Tylor, entry 330, Cush-
ing Papers, Southwest Museum, Los Angeles, California.
35. T. J. Ferguson, Roger Anyon, and Edmund Ladd, “Repatriation at the Pueblo of
Zuni: Diverse Solutions to Complex Problems,” in “Repatriation: An Interdisci-
plinary Dialogue,” special issue, American Indian Quarterly 20, no. 2 (1996):
263.
36. Enote, personal communication, August 2006.
37. Enote, personal communication, August 2006.

Responsibilities toward Knowledge 321

12
Museums as Sites
of Decolonization
Truth Telling in National
and Tribal Museums
amy lonetree

Beginnings
The beginnings of this project are rooted in my previous work on the
Smithsonian’s National Museum of the American Indian (nmai) and its
presentation of Indigenous history and memory in their exhibitions. In
May 2007 I completed a coedited volume on the nmai with Amanda J.
Cobb entitled The National Museum of the American Indian: Critical Con-
versations. While working on this volume, I also had the pleasure of pre-
senting my scholarship on the nmai to a range of audiences at scholarly
and museum-related conferences, which afforded opportunities for me
to wrestle with my ideas regarding the nmai’s significance to the chang-
ing historical relationship between Indigenous peoples and museums.
In my scholarship on the nmai, I have asserted that, while the museum
advances an important collaborative methodology in their exhibitions,
their historical exhibits fail to present a clear and coherent understand-
ing of colonialism and its ongoing effects. My critiques focus mostly on
the institution’s presentation of Native American history in the gallery
Our Peoples: Giving Voice to Our Histories, which I argue conflates In-
digenous understanding of history with a postmodernist presentation
of history and, secondly, fails to tell the hard truths of colonization and
the genocidal acts that have been committed against Indigenous people.1
I focus on the second of these two issues in the discussion that follows.
Given the silences around the subject of colonialism and its ongoing ef-

322
fects, I argue that the museum fails to serve as a site of truth telling and
remembering and that it remains very much an institution of the nation-
state. Thus, I caution against referring to this site as a “tribal museum writ
large” or, even more problematically, as a “decolonizing museum,” which
both scholars and nmai staff members have done.
My desire to complicate the discourse on the nmai stems from my con-
cerns about the co-optation of the language of decolonization by scholars
who assert that this institution is a decolonizing museum. In an article
published shortly after the museum’s opening, Australian archaeologist
Claire Smith argues, “As a National Museum charting new territory, the
nmai is leading a nation down a path of understanding and reconciliation.
. . . A cultural and spiritual emblem on the National Mall of Washington
dc, the Smithsonian’s National Museum of the American Indian exem-
plifies decolonization in practice. Through being consciously shaped by
the classification systems, worldviews, and philosophies of its Indigenous
constituency, this new national museum is claiming moral territory for
Indigenous peoples, in the process reversing the impact of colonialism
and asserting the unique place of Native peoples in the past, present, and
future of the Americas.”2
The assertion by Claire Smith that the nmai is a “decolonizing museum
. . . reversing the impact of colonialism” ignores the absence of a clear and
consistent discussion of colonization throughout their museum. This type
of discussion is critical, for, as Waziyatawin Angela Wilson and Michael
Yellow Bird argue, “The first step toward decolonization then is to ques-
tion the legitimacy of colonization.”3 The silence around the history of co-
lonialism throughout the Americas at the nmai fails to challenge the pub-
lic’s steadfast refusal to face this nation’s genocidal policies that had, and
continue to have, a devastating impact on Indigenous people. Nor does
this silence assist Native communities in recognizing how colonialism has
affected all areas of their lives, including how to embark on the necessary
changes to move toward decolonization and community healing.
Another point of concern is Smith embracing the idea that the nmai
is “leading a nation down a path of understanding and reconciliation.”
This seems presumptive given that the U.S. government has never for-
mally apologized to Indigenous people nor is there a reparations pro-
cess in place. Canadian scholar Pauline Wakeham in her article, “Per-

Museums as Sites of Decolonization 323

forming Reconciliation at the nmai: Postcolonial Rapprochement and
the Politics of Historical Closure,” highlights the process by which the
nmai, through its opening ceremonies, “bypasses any performance
of apology for colonial injustices and moves straight to a joyous, de-
politicized celebration of reconciliation.”4 Even though her emphasis in
this argument was on the opening ceremonies of the museum, I would
argue that this desire to move to a “joyous, de-politicized celebration of
reconciliation” permeates the entire institution and is certainly reflected
in its exhibitions. The exhibits in all three of the permanent galleries at
the nmai fail to explicitly address the hard truths of colonization and im-
ply that this is a closed chapter in our history.
I want to make it clear that I am not discounting the role that Native
American knowledge systems played in influencing aspects of the devel-
opment of the nmai, nor am I dismissing the museum’s important col-
laborative methodology with Indigenous communities throughout the
Western Hemisphere. But this alone is not decolonization.
The nmai represents the most ambitious collaborative project to date,
and collaboration and the inclusion of Native voice in all aspects of mu-
seum practice reflects the most important new direction in the last thirty-
plus years of our relationships to mainstream museums. Instead, my goal
is to raise awareness of the complicated identity of the nmai, which re-
flects a still-evolving relationship between Indigenous peoples and mu-
seums, and to caution against referring to the nmai as a decolonizing
museum or as a form of “museological reconciliation” achieved that can
problematically “lend itself to complicity with and co-optation by the state
for the purposes of staging postcolonial rapprochement via the cultural
milieu of museums,” as Pauline Wakeham argues.5

Decolonizing Representations: Truth Telling in Exhibitions

While attempting to complicate the discourse on the nmai, I have been
faced with several questions regarding how to effectively present Indig-
enous history within exhibition spaces. In essence, if there are problems
with this particular national museum’s presentation of Native American
history, how does one effectively represent the complicated and challeng-
ing history that both addresses the hard truths of colonization and also

324 lonetree
honors Indigenous understandings of history? Furthermore, if I caution
against referring to the nmai as an example of a decolonizing museum,
what would a “decolonizing museum” look like?
During my research at both national and tribal museums over the last
ten years, I have been greatly influenced by the work of those Indigenous
intellectuals who have been working in the area of decolonization, and
I have been thinking critically about how museums can serve as sites
of decolonization. Indigenous scholars Waziyatawin Angela Wilson and
Michael Yellow Bird recently assembled a collection of essays focusing
on decolonization strategies for Native communities, which has greatly
informed my analysis. In this volume, For Indigenous Eyes Only: A De-
colonization Handbook, nine intellectuals from a range of tribal and dis-
ciplinary backgrounds provide insights into the work that needs to take
place in Indian Country to bring about decolonization and healing for
our communities. The purpose of this volume is to encourage critical
thinking skills so as to “mobilize a massive decolonization movement in
North America.”6 The contributors powerfully and persuasively illustrate
the “importance of understanding how colonization has taken root in our
lives” and explore how to counteract the devastating impact of colonialism
by encouraging critical thinking on Indigenous governance, education,
citizenship, diet, language, repatriation, and stereotypes and images.
In For Indigenous Eyes Only, a compelling final essay by Waziyatawin
Angela Wilson emphasizes the importance of truth telling and calls for a
truth commission in the United States, similar to truth commissions that
took place in South Africa and other parts of the world, to address the
ongoing and systematic attacks on Indigenous bodies, land, sovereignty,
and lifeways that have continued to occur throughout the Western Hemi-
sphere. She states that this is necessary to bring about the healing of our
communities and to empower future generations of Indigenous people.
Additionally, the only way for Native people to heal from the historical
trauma that we have experienced — genocidal warfare, land theft, ethnic
cleansing, disease, and the attempted destruction of our religious and cer-
emonial life at the hands of the government and Christian churches — is
for us to speak the truth about what has happened, document the suf-
fering, and name the perpetrators of the violence in our history. Wilson

Museums as Sites of Decolonization 325

argues that, given the steadfast denial of Americans to face this history,
truth telling becomes a crucial part of the decolonization process.7
Furthermore, in speaking the truth about the violence in our history, we
are also ensuring that future generations can never claim ignorance of this
history. As Archbishop Desmond Tutu states, regarding the South Afri-
can Truth and Reconciliation Commission, “No one in South Africa could
ever again be able to say, ‘I didn’t know,’ and hoped to be believed.”8
This call for truth telling as a decolonizing strategy is critical, and our
museums should serve as sites where the hard truths are told honestly
and specifically. We need to make sure that our museums include the dif-
ficult stories that serve to challenge deeply embedded stereotypes — not
just the ones of Native disappearance that museum presentations of the
past have reinforced in the nation’s consciousness, but the willed igno-
rance of this nation to face its colonialist past and present. In my years
studying exhibits that have been related to Native Americans, I have found
that most contemporary museums are successful in producing exhibits
that challenge the vanishing-Indian stereotype by emphasizing contem-
porary survival and sustained presence; but they have had limited suc-
cess in presenting a hard-hitting analysis of colonization. I believe it is
time for a more careful and critical discussion of how the hard truths of
Native American history are presented in our museums of the twenty-
first century. Truth telling is a critical aspect to decolonization, and our
museums need to assist in these efforts. As Taiaiake Alfred states,

Decolonization . . . is a process of discovering the truth in a world cre-

ated out of lies. It is thinking through what we think we know to what
is actually true but is obscured by knowledge derived from our expe-
riences as colonized peoples. The truth is the main struggle, and the
struggle is manifest mainly inside our own heads. From there, it goes
to our families and our communities and reverberates outward into the
larger society, beginning to shape our relationship with it. In a colo-
nized reality, our struggle is with all existing forms of political power,
and to this fight, we bring our only real weapon: the power of truth.9

It is the absence of the hard truths of the specifics of Native-white rela-

tions at the nmai that have led me to view this site as a missed opportunity

326 lonetree
to educate and assist tribal communities in efforts toward decolonization
and healing. I am left then with the question of how museum exhibitions
can effectively disrupt colonial constructions of Native history and cul-
ture, engage in truth telling, and also honor Indigenous understandings
of history and contemporary survival. I believe that I have found a place
that is very successful in achieving these complex goals and that reflects
a decolonizing museum practice in a tribal museum.

The Ziibiwing Center: Indigenizing Museum Practice

I first visited the Saginaw Chippewa’s Ziibiwing Center for Anishinabe
Culture and Lifeways in May 2006 while attending a tribal museum de-
velopment symposium on their reservation. I have since returned for nu-
merous research visits. What became immediately apparent during my
first visit is how this community center embodies a decolonizing museum
practice and creates an engaging learning experience for visitors. The
32,000-square-foot facility includes a state-of-the-art research center, a
gift shop and café, and a 9,000-square-foot exhibition space that features
the history, philosophy, and culture of the Saginaw Chippewa community
as told from their perspective. This cultural center, though unique in con-
tent, grows out of an emerging movement of large-scale, tribal-museum
development of the last twenty years that includes places such as the Mu-
seum at Warm Springs (Warm Springs, Oregon), the Tamástslikt Cultural
Institute (Pendleton, Oregon), the Mille Lacs Indian Museum (Onamia,
Minnesota), and the Mashantucket Pequot Museum and Research Cen-
ter (Mashantucket, Connecticut).10
The Ziibiwing Center reflects some of the most current and innova-
tive exhibition strategies, including exhibitions that are more thematic
than object centered; film presentations and multimedia that are state of
the art; more storytelling and first-person voice; and, most significantly,
emphasis on twentieth-century survival within the context of what Na-
tive people survived in the first place.11 The museum provides an engag-
ing and in-depth presentation of Saginaw Chippewa history and culture
in the permanent exhibition Diba Jimooyung: Telling Our Story, which
opened in 2004. A range of topics are covered in the gallery, including
precontact Anishinabe history and seasonal living; tribal creation sto-
ries and the oral tradition; first contact with Europeans; the lasting lega-

Museums as Sites of Decolonization 327

cies of colonization; and contemporary issues such as language revitaliza-
tion efforts, protection of tribal sovereignty, gaming, repatriation efforts,
and reclaiming and revitalizing Saginaw Chippewa culture and identity
today.
What I will highlight here is the Ziibiwing Center’s treatment of two
themes that I believe represent the best interpretative strategies and re-
flect a decolonizing agenda: (1) their representation of history that reflects
more closely an Indigenous understanding of history (as opposed to a
postmodern sense of history) through a presentation of the oral tradi-
tion and (2) their ability to speak the hard truths of colonization in their
exhibitions.
As Indigenous peoples, we have long established that we have a dif-
ferent way of understanding history than non-Native people, the most
important differentiation being our adherence to the oral tradition. As
Wilson states, “We have our own theories about history, as well as our
own interpretations and sense of history, in which our stories play a cen-
tral role.”12 The privileging of the oral tradition is what happens on the
exhibition floor at the Ziibiwing Center and provides the overarching
framework for the visitor to engage with Anishinabe history and culture.
Through their presentation of the oral tradition within the exhibits, this
museum engages with the best emerging scholarship in Native Ameri-
can history, which seeks to “position oral traditions as vehicles to create
histories that better reflect Native people’s perspectives on the past.”13
The exhibitions highlight the “Seven Prophecies/Seven Fires” of the
Anishinabe people, which are part of their oral tradition. The museum
is organized around the prophecies, and this is a very effective and inti-
mate manner in which to narrate their history. As visitors travel through
their 9,000-square-foot exhibition, each of these prophecies is introduced
on text panels; and visitors then hear the prophecy — spoken first in An-
ishinabe, followed by an English translation. The prophecies are the nar-
rative thread that connects the contents of the museum and provides an
understanding of their tribal philosophies and spirituality.14
By representing historical events within the context of the prophecies
instead of through a rigid adherence to the specifics of U.S.-Indian rela-
tions, the museum is engaging in an important decolonizing strategy that
privileges the oral tradition and Indigenous conceptions of history. The
historical material is in there, but it is presented in a tribally based frame-

328 lonetree
work of understanding history that illustrates the themes of the prophe-
cies. A case in point is their treatment of history within the fifth proph-
ecy, their time of separation and struggle during the nineteenth century,
which I will elaborate upon in a moment.
Another important point about their desire to have the prophecies be
the overarching narrative structure is that the museum, while honoring
tribal understanding of history, also provided a well-organized structure
in which the visitor can engage with the material. There is organization
in this museum — and it is definitely clear and coherent while introduc-
ing new knowledge to the visitor.
The uniqueness of the Ziibiwing approach, having oral tradition be the
guiding narrative structure for the museum, builds and expands upon
other previous efforts at sites that I have visited and studied. In my re-
search on the Mille Lacs Indian Museum in Onamia, Minnesota (a collab-
orative project with the Minnesota Historical Society and the Mille Lacs
Band of Ojibwe), the museum’s exhibition narrative — while informed by
oral histories of past and present band members, several of whom are
quoted throughout the museum — is not organized to follow the oral tra-
dition as an overarching framework.
I offer this recollection not to disrespect the choices of the Mille Lacs
Band advisory board but to contextualize the significance of the Ziibiwing
Center’s staff decision to have the prophecies be the organizing structure
of the museum. I have witnessed changes in tribal-museum development
over the last fourteen years, and it is important to acknowledge these
changes. In the case of the Mille Lacs Band, the decisions of the advisory
board were based on their own unique identities and circumstances as a
collaborative project with the Minnesota Historical Society at a particular
moment in time, which served their interests and the needs of their in-
tended audience. But in the case of the Ziibiwing Center, the staff mem-
bers felt it was appropriate to share their oral tradition and spirituality,
and as one staff member recognized, “We tried something that we felt was
very daring and unusual, but made sense to us.”15

Narrating the Hard Truths of Colonization

The second point I would like to make regarding the effectiveness of the
narrative strategy at the Ziibiwing Center relates to their presentation of
colonization. The community’s desire to build this museum had every-

Museums as Sites of Decolonization 329

thing to do with wanting it to be a site of “knowledge making and re-
membering” for their community and also a place where the difficult
stories could be told.16 As one staff member stated, “We felt by building
this facility and acknowledging our past, it would allow us to begin a heal-
ing process for our community and the communities that surround us.
Years of generational trauma, experienced as a result of years of oppres-
sion and alienation, have left our community with many blanks in their
communal history.”17
By narrating their history in this museum, the community did not
shy away from speaking the hard truths of colonization and the lasting
legacies in their community. A significant amount of floor space at the
museum is devoted to emphasizing their survival within a colonial con-
text — a direct challenge to stereotypical displays that were produced in
the past that emphasized Native disappearance in the wake of westward
expansion. However, the museum does not avoid telling the difficult sto-
ries of land theft, disease, poverty, violence, and forced conversion at the
hands of Christian missionaries. The context of what makes their sur-
vival so amazing and worthy of celebration is their treatment of coloni-
zation in the preceding sections. And they devote a considerable amount
of floor space in the museum to address important contemporary issues
and Saginaw Chippewa survivance. However, there are no silences about
the forces that sought to destroy them. For example, we can look at the
following text panel that occurs in the section of their museum focusing
on the effects of colonization. Additionally, notice their use of the active
voice:

Gichi Ogimaa Do Naakonigewinan

The Laws/Rules Made by the Government

The United States government implemented many policies that were

destructive to our way of life.
Government policies included ruthless efforts to remove the Anishin-
abek from their lands. Genocide, smallpox, and forced removal were
ways to secure the highly valuable and fertile grounds of the Michigan
Territory. For the Anishinabek who would not move, the government
brought an era of cruel acculturation through the establishment of gov-
ernment and missionary schools.18

330 lonetree
They also do not shy away from speaking about the devastating impact of
alcoholism, which they describe as a “weapon of exploitation”:

Waawiindimaagewinan Gii Zhichigaadek

When the Promises Were Made

This is how a treaty signing may have looked.

An interpreter, hired by the government, “translated” the negotiations
between the two nations. Many gifts were brought to the treaty table
as “gestures” of goodwill, including alcohol. Alcohol was a foreign sub-
stance to the Anishinabek and we had no context for its use. It was in-
tentionally used as a weapon of exploitation.19

In this section of their museum, where the hard truths are spoken in
the Effects of Colonization Gallery, the exhibits focus on the tragic period
in their history that includes “loss of land, life, and language.” The design
elements in this section illustrate this sense of intense pressure — it is here
that the walls literally begin to narrow, thus giving a sense that the world
is closing in on them. This gallery relays a painful story, which is done so
effectively by layering information and including voiceovers and images
that provide a visual break to the painful stories visitors are reading. The
maps, text panels, images of their ancestors, and treaties, all provide an
important context on this devastating period of the fifth prophecy, which
“foretold that the Anishinabek would encounter separation and struggle
for many generations.”20
The use of audio in this section is very effective. In one area, visitors
hear voices of individuals who are reading some of the documents fea-
tured on nearby text panels. The words of Ojibwe leaders and government
officials such as Lewis Cass and John Hudson are all heard as you walk
through this space. Listening to the venomous language of the coloniz-
ers is very difficult, and the exhibit strategically makes sure that no one
misses hearing these words. It is easy to pass by and not read a text panel,
but it is another thing entirely to miss these words as they are repeated
over and over again overhead as you move through this space. Listening
to the deep-seated hatred of someone that Lewis Cass and others had for
the Ojibwe people is an emotional experience, and the exhibit makes it
almost impossible to avoid this.

Museums as Sites of Decolonization 331

 Another important point about the impact of this section is that it
touches upon the intergenerational trauma that was experienced during
this period and connects the social problems of today to what happened
in the past. The community is also not afraid to acknowledge that there
are problems they still must confront as a result of the effects of coloni-
zation, and I greatly respect their willingness to speak of what we as In-
digenous people know but are somewhat reluctant to talk about within
a museum context. All too often our concern of coming across as if we
are subscribing to the language of victimization, or perhaps the more le-
gitimate concern that this information could potentially reinforce stereo-
types, prevents us from speaking the hard truths about our present social
problems and connecting those issues to the colonization process. In an
effort to “acknowledge our past . . . and begin a healing process for our
communities and the communities that surround us,” the curators at the
Ziibiwing Center bravely state,

Gichi Aakoziwin Miinawaa Nibowin

Great Illness and Death

Government policies resulted in profound health problems for the

Anishinabek.
The Anishinabek fell into poverty and despair from our loss of land
and livelihood. The settlers brought diseases for which the Anishin-
abek had no immunity or cure. Many villages were completely wiped
out by these new sicknesses. Tuberculosis and mass burials were com-
mon. The Anishinabek suffered greatly and we still suffer the effects of
this era today. Due to the poverty that we have endured, health prob-
lems such as diabetes, tuberculosis, heart disease, and alcoholism still
plague us.21

During the planning process, audience evaluations were conducted with

community members and museum professionals to assess the effective-
ness of particular sections, and feedback on the Effects of Colonization
Gallery indicated that this “was a very painful and emotional era for peo-
ple to visit, see, and hear.”22 In light of this information, the curators de-
cided to provide a place where people could collect their thoughts and
have a moment of reflection after witnessing these painful truths. In an

332 lonetree
attempt to provide a healing space so as to “not leave . . . open wounds in
the hearts of our people,”23 the exhibition team developed a gallery en-
titled Blood Memory. This unique exhibit is very effective, engaging, and
profoundly moving.
As you are standing in the latter part of the Effects gallery, audio is used
effectively to draw you toward the Blood Memory space, which has a cur-
vilinear, almost womb-like design and the healing smell of cedar.24 You
begin to hear a heartbeat and a beautiful song that three women from the
community are singing. The singing helps pull you forward from the dif-
ficult space in colonization to this healing space. The following text panel
introduces this concept:

Mindjimendamowin
Blood Memory

Blood memory is an inherent connection we have to our spirituality,

ancestors, and all of Creation.
Blood memory can be described as the emotions we feel when we hear
the drum or our language for the first time. The Creator gives these
emotions to us at birth. We use these emotions or blood memories to
understand our heritage and our connection to our ancestors. Blood
memory makes these connections for us.
Today, many Anishinabek use their blood memory to relearn our lan-
guage. Our beautiful and descriptive language is deeply rooted in the
land and our connections to it. As more and more Anishinabek recall
their blood memory, our language and our spirituality will be spoken
for the next Seven Generations.25

Included in the Blood Memory space is a display with beautiful objects

that have been made by tribal individuals, objects that are meant to con-
vey this important “take home message”: even through the darkest and
most painful period in their modern history the Saginaw Chippewa an-
cestors managed to create works of great beauty. The display case Creat-
ing Beautiful Things in Difficult Times features beautiful beadwork items
including bandolier bags, vests, belts, and leggings with labels identifying
specific objects.
The idea that these objects embody the strength of their ancestors re-

Museums as Sites of Decolonization 333

flects an important point made by Ruth Phillips: “Historical objects are
witnesses, things that were there, then. They bear their makers’ marks in
their weaves, textures, and shapes, and have a compelling agency to cause
people living in the present to enunciate their relationships to the past.” 26
The relationship to the past embodied in the Ziibiwing Center objects
connects contemporary tribal members to their ancestors and artistic
traditions, and it conveys an important message of tribal strength, which
is a part of their identity as Saginaw Chippewa.
By presenting examples of their rich artistic tradition in this manner,
the museum is providing a unique perspective on early twentieth-century
material culture. While I have seen many museums present these types of
objects in a manner that challenge age-old art versus ethnographic catego-
ries or that demonstrates cultural continuance by placing contemporary
objects nearby, this is the first place I have seen an effort to explicitly have
these objects illuminate survival during the “crying time.” Their presence
reminds tribal members of their ancestor’s strength and endurance.
The Effects of Colonization Gallery along with the Blood Memory Gal-
lery, in my mind, represent one of the most effective methods that a tribal
museum can use to assist community members in the truth telling and
healing processes. The Ziibiwing Center did not shy away from telling the
difficult stories. But alongside those stories they also provided a healing
place where tribal members could gain strength from understanding and
reclaiming their rich cultural inheritance and identity.

Museums, as we know, are as much about the present and future as they
are about the past. As we look to the future, I believe it is critical that mu-
seums support Indigenous communities in our efforts toward decoloniza-
tion, through privileging Indigenous voice and perspective, through chal-
lenging stereotypical representations of Native people that were produced
in the past, and by serving as educational forums for our own communi-
ties and the general public. Furthermore, the hard truths of our history
need to be conveyed, both for the good of our communities and the gen-
eral public, to a nation that has willfully sought to silence our versions of
the past. We need to tell these hard truths of colonization — explicitly and
specifically — in our twenty-first-century museums. As Apache historian
Myla Vicenti Carpio argues, “It is vital that Indigenous communities freely

334 lonetree
discuss (and even debate) the history and impacts of colonization to begin
healing and move toward the decolonization of Indigenous peoples.”27
My current research on the Ziibiwing Center of Anishinabe Culture
and Lifeways builds upon my previous work on the nmai and on my con-
cern over the labeling of the nmai as a “decolonizing museum.” While I
fully support the nmai’s collaborative methodology of working with tribal
communities from throughout the hemisphere, my concern is over the
absence of a clear, coherent, and hard-hitting analysis of colonialism and
its ongoing effects. And without that context, the museum falls short in
moving us forward in our efforts toward decolonization.
As one of the newest tribally owned and operated museums, the Ziibi-
wing Center exemplifies a decolonizing museum practice through privi-
leging oral tradition and through speaking of the hard truths of coloni-
zation to promote healing and understanding for their community. The
complex story of this tribal nation is presented powerfully and beauti-
fully and embodies the best new representational strategies; it is heavily
informed by important scholarship in the Native American studies field. It
is no surprise that visitors have responded very favorably to the museum’s
exhibitions, as conversations with staff members have indicated. Tribal
and non-tribal members have referred to their engagement with the per-
manent exhibit Diba Jimooyung: Telling Our Story as “a spiritual experi-
ence.”28 This museum provides an important forum for Saginaw Chippewa
members to gain understanding of their unique history and culture and
is designed to empower current and future generations. Founding direc-
tor Bonnie Ekdahl suggested that the “healing of our own community”
is the primary goal for this museum; and by honoring the oral tradition
and engaging in truth telling, they are taking important steps forward in
that direction.29

Notes
Portions of this essay appeared in a shorter exhibition review in the Journal of
American History 95, no. 1 (2008): 158–62. Copyright © Organization of Ameri-
can Historians. All rights reserved. Excerpted with permission.
1. Amy Lonetree, “Continuing Dialogues: Evolving Views of the National Museum
of the American Indian” in The Public Historian, Invited Roundtable on the Na-
tional Museum of the American Indian, 28, no. 2 (2006): 57–61; and Amy Lone-

Museums as Sites of Decolonization 335

 tree, “Missed Opportunities: Reflections on the National Museum of the Amer-
ican Indian,” in “Critical Engagements with the National Museum of the American
Indian,” ed. Amy Lonetree and Sonya Atalay, special issue, American Indian Quar-
terly 30, nos. 3–4 (2006): 632–45. Revised and expanded form of the essay as Amy
Lonetree, “‘Acknowledging the Truth of History’: Missed Opportunities at the
National Museum of the American Indian,” in The National Museum of the Ameri-
can Indian: Critical Conversations, ed. Amy Lonetree and Amanda J. Cobb (Lin-
coln: University of Nebraska Press, 2008), 305–27.
2. Claire Smith, “Decolonising the Museum: The National Museum of the Ameri-
can Indian in Washington dc,” Antiquity 79, no. 304 (2005): 437.
3. Waziyatawin Angela Wilson and Michael Yellow Bird, “Beginning Decolonization,”
in For Indigenous Eyes Only: A Decolonization Handbook, ed. Waziyatawin Angela
Wilson and Michael Yellowbird (Santa Fe nm: School of American Research Press,
2005), 2.
4. Pauline Wakeham, “Performing Reconciliation at the nmai: Postcolonial Rap-
prochement and the Politics of Historical Closure” in Lonetree and Cobb, National
Museum of the American Indian, 354.
5. Wakeham, “Performing Reconciliation,” 355.
6. Wilson and Yellow Bird, “Beginning Decolonization,” 3.
7. Wilson and Yellow Bird, “Beginning Decolonization,” 7.
8. Desmond Tutu, quoted in Waziyatawin Angela Wilson and Michael Yellow Bird,
“Relieving Our Suffering: “Indigenous Decolonization and a United States Truth
Commission,” in Wilson and Yellowbird, For Indigenous Eyes Only, 204.
9. Taiaiake Alfred, Wasáse: Indigenous Pathways of Action and Freedom (Peterbor-
ough on: Broadview Press, 2005), 280.
10. For a recent analysis of the Mashantucket Pequot Museum, see John J. Bodinger
de Uriarte, Casino and Museum: Representing Mashantucket Pequot Identity (Tuc-
son: University of Arizona Press, 2007). Other important monographs focusing
on tribal museum development include Gwyneira Isaac, Mediating Knowledges:
Origins of a Zuni Tribal Museum (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2007);
and Patricia Pierce Erikson, Voices of a Thousand People: The Makah Cultural and
Research Center with Helma Ward and Kirk Wachendorf (Lincoln: University of
Nebraska Press, 2002).
11. I do not want to diminish in any way the importance of objects in exhibitions.
What I am referring to here is the recent move to allow themes, rather than ob-
jects, to drive exhibit content. In newer types of exhibitions, objects are still very
important but are used as illustrations of certain themes.
12. Waziyatawin Angela Wilson, Remember This: Dakota Decolonization and the Eli
Taylor Narratives (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2005), 50.
13. Jennifer Nez Denetdale, Reclaiming Dine History: The Legacies of Chief Manuelito
and Juanita (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2007), 7.

336 lonetree
14. The Fall 2006 issue of Museum Design magazine featured an interview with Bi-
anca Message — president of Andre & Associates, the center’s exhibit-design
firm — describing the uniqueness of the center’s approach to present their tribal
philosophies. “A Conversation with Bianca Message,” Museum Design, Fall 2006,
1–16.
15. “Narrative: History of the Diba Jimooyung Permanent Exhibit/Two Voices; The
Ziibiwing Cultural Society and the Exhibit Designer,” Exhibit Curator Files, Zi-
ibiwing Center for Anishinabe Culture and Lifeways, Mt. Pleasant, Michigan.
16. Erikson, Voices of a Thousand People, 30.
17. “Narrative: History of the Diba Jimooyung Permanent Exhibit/Two Voices,”
p. 2.
18. This quotation was taken from a text panel in the Effects of Colonization exhibit
(Area 7) at the Ziibiwing Center for Anishinabe Culture and Lifeways.
19. Effects of Colonization exhibition text panel.
20. Effects of Colonization exhibition text panel.
21. Effects of Colonization exhibition text panel.
22. “Narrative: History of the Diba Jimooyung Permanent Exhibit/Two Voices,”
p. 7.
23. “Narrative: History of the Diba Jimooyung Permanent Exhibit/Two Voices,”
p. 7.
24. “A Conversation with Bianca Message,” 24.
25. This quotation was taken from a text panel in the Blood Memory exhibit (Area
9) at the Ziibiwing Center for Anishinabe Culture and Lifeways.
26. Ruth B. Phillips, “Re-placing Objects: Historical Practices for the Second Museum
Age,” Canadian Historian Review 86, no. 1 (2005): 108.
27. Myla Vicenti Carpio, “(Un)disturbing Exhibitions: Indigenous Historical Memory
at the nmai,” in “Critical Engagements with the National Museum of the American
Indian,” ed. Amy Lonetree and Sonya Atalay, special issue, American Indian Quar-
terly 30, nos. 3–4 (2006): 631.
28. “Narrative: History of the Diba Jimooyung Permanent Exhibit/Two Voices,”
p. 3.
29. Founding director Bonnie Ekdahl as quoted in, “A Conversation with Bianca
Message,” 16. Ekdahl also shared this view during a panel presentation at Embrac-
ing a Community: A 21st Century Tribal Museum Model Symposium, at the Zi-
ibiwing Center of Anishinabe Culture and Lifeways, Mt. Pleasant, Michigan,
May 2006.

Museums as Sites of Decolonization 337

 Contributors

Kristina Ackley (Oneida Bad River Ojibwe) is a member of the faculty in Native
American Studies at Evergreen State College. She received her ma in American In-
dian Studies from the University of Arizona and her PhD in American Studies from
the State University of New York at Buffalo. She is currently working on a compara-
tive analysis of Oneida nationalism and expressions of sovereignty.

Miranda J. Brady’s research addresses issues of representation, identity, and power

in the use of public media. She examines how technologies of mediation and cul-
tural policies are employed by institutions to shape the terms of American Indian
involvement in public and political life. In 2007 Brady was awarded a short-term fel-
lowship from the Newberry Library’s D’Arcy McNickle Center for American Indian
History. Her recent work is concerned with the use of digital media in public spaces,
discourse, and political economy. Brady’s dissertation examined the intersection of
cultural policy, power, nationalism, and digital technology in the National Museum
of the American Indian. She is an assistant professor of Journalism and Communica-
tion at Carleton University, Ottawa, Canada.

M. Teresa Carlson is originally from Vancouver Island on British Columbia’s west

coast. She has a ba and postgraduate diplomas in cultural resource management from
the University of Victoria. She has worked in museums and cultural centers for al-
most twenty years. She found the years she spent at Stó:lõ Nation creating a cultural
center and archaeological repository to be the most rewarding, as she was able to en-
gage in collaborative research, including various topics in Aboriginal self-governance,
culture and heritage, rights and title, education, and exhibits and programming. In
2001 she moved to Saskatoon with her husband, Keith, and their two children. She
is currently the acting director of the Diefenbaker Canada Centre at the University
of Saskatchewan, the only Prime Ministerial museum, archives, and research center
in Canada. The Diefenbaker Centre hosts a wide variety of exhibits and associated
educational programming.

Brenda J. Child (Red Lake Ojibwe) is an associate professor of American studies at

the University of Minnesota, Twin Cities. Her book Boarding School Seasons: Ameri-

339
can Indian Families, 1900–1940 won the North American Indian Prose Award. She is
a member of the executive council of the Minnesota Historical Society and the Indian
advisory committee to the Eiteljorg Museum.

Brian Isaac Daniels is a doctoral student in history and anthropology at the Uni-
versity of Pennsylvania. His research focuses upon how cultural heritage laws and
cultural institutions engender historical awareness. Daniels has an extended ethno-
graphic commitment to western North America, where he has worked with Native
communities on issues surrounding heritage rights, repatriation, and recognition.
As a joint-degree student he is currently at work writing two dissertations: one about
the political uses of heritage laws by Indigenous communities and the other about
museums, preservation laws, and the production of history in the United States. His
research has been underwritten by fellowships from the Woodrow Wilson Founda-
tion, the Wenner-Gren Foundation, and the Smithsonian Institution.

Gwyneira Isaac obtained her PhD from Oxford University in 2002; she is an assis-
tant professor and director of the Museum of Anthropology at the School of Human
Evolution and Social Change at Arizona State University. Her research focuses on the
relationships people develop with their past through material culture, leading her to
explore the history of anthropology and photography as well as the development of
tribal museums in the Southwest. Bridging these different topics has resulted in her
interest in developing theories that integrate anthropology, art, and history to form
interdisciplinary and cross-cultural approaches to the study of society. She has con-
ducted fieldwork at the A:shiwi A:wan Museum and Heritage Center in Zuni, New
Mexico, and at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington dc. Her book, Mediating
Knowledges: Origins of a Zuni Tribal Museum, has recently been published by the
University of Arizona Press.

Hal Langfur teaches the history of Brazil, colonial Latin America, and the Atlantic
world as well as ethnohistory at the State University of New York at Buffalo. He is the
author of The Forbidden Lands: Colonial Identity, Frontier Violence, and the Persistence
of Brazil’s Eastern Indians, 1750–1830 and editor of the forthcoming Native Brazil: Be-
yond the Cannibal and the Convert, 1500–1889. His articles have appeared in various
U.S. and Brazilian academic journals, including the Journal of Social History, the His-
panic American Historical Review, the Americas, Ethnohistory, Revista da História, and
Tempo. He is currently working on a book-length study entitled “Adrift on an Inland
Sea: The Projection of Colonial Power in the Brazilian Wilderness.”

Paul Liffman is a research professor in the Center for Anthropological Studies at the
Colegio de Michoacán; he previously worked as a consultant and translator for the
Wixarika (Huichol) exhibit at the National Museum of the American Indian. His dis-
sertation, “Huichol Territoriality: Land and Cultural Claims in Western Mexico,” is
based on six years of fieldwork with Huichols, primarily in San Andrés Cohamiata,

340 Contributors
as well as with ajagi, the nongovernmental organization that most strongly backed
Huichol demands for land restitution. This fieldwork was supported by Fulbright and
Wenner-Gren Foundation grants and by ciesas–Occidente. The thesis deals with the
relationship between ceremonial place-making and with the construction of territory
and its representation in legal and cultural claims in the courts, political venues, In-
digenous schools, and the press.

Amy Lonetree is an enrolled citizen of the Ho-Chunk Nation of Wisconsin. In 2002

she earned a PhD in ethnic studies from the University of California, Berkeley, where
she specialized in Native American history and museum studies. Her scholarly work
focuses on the representation of Indigenous people in both national and tribal mu-
seums; she has conducted research on this topic at the Smithsonian Institution’s Na-
tional Museum of the American Indian, the Minnesota Historical Society, the Mille
Lacs Indian Museum, the Ziibiwing Center of Anishinabe Culture and Lifeways, and
the British Museum. She has published articles based on this research in American In-
dian Quarterly and Public Historian and has recently edited a collection, with Amanda
J. Cobb, on the Smithsonian Institution’s National Museum of the American Indian
(University of Nebraska Press, 2008). She is currently assistant professor of American
Studies at the University of California, Santa Cruz.

Brenda Macdougall is an assistant professor in the Department of Native Studies at

the University of Saskatchewan. Having recently completed her dissertation and PhD
at the University of Saskatchewan, Macdougall has begun work on several research
projects, including developing a digital archive capturing sources related to Western
Canadian First Nations and Metis history in the twentieth century, examining the
history of the Round Prairie Metis, and collaborating with researchers from the uni-
versities of Alberta and Saskatchewan as well as from the Northwest Saskatchewan
Metis Council to produce an atlas of the Metis experience in northwestern Saskatch-
ewan. She is currently teaching in the Department of Native Studies at the Univer-
sity of Saskatchewan.

Zine Magubane is an associate professor of sociology and African diaspora studies at

Boston College. She is the author of Bringing the Empire Home: Race, Class, and Gen-
der in Britain and Colonial South Africa; editor of Postmodernism, Postcoloniality, and
African Studies; and coeditor of Hear Our Voices: Black South African Women in the
Academy. Magubane has published in Gender and Society, Cultural Studies, and Africa
Today. She is currently working on a book called Brand the Beloved Country: Africa in
Celebrity Culture, which looks at the role of celebrity philanthropy in Africa.

Ann McMullen holds a PhD in anthropology from Brown University and, since 2000,
has been a curator at the Smithsonian Institution’s National Museum of the Ameri-
can Indian. Beyond work on the nmai’s 2004 inaugural exhibitions, her research and
publications have focused on Native people of northeastern North America, especially

Contributors 341
material cultures, traditions, innovation, and commercialization; the intersection of
ethnography and ethnohistory; Native historiography and invented traditions; and the
nature and transformation of Native communities and community networks.

Jacki Thompson Rand is an associate professor of history at the University of Iowa.

She received a PhD from the Department of History at the University of Oklahoma
in 1998. Her book, Kiowa Humanity and the Invasion of the State, is a study of Kiowa
relations with the state during the last quarter of the nineteenth century; the book
centers on the lives of ordinary Kiowa women and young men during the establish-
ment of the Kiowa, Comanche, and Apache reservation in 1867 through the post-
allotment period to 1910. Through the tracking of material objects associated with
Kiowa women and young men she has created a study of reservation and postreser-
vation society and economy, of actions taken by the state at the federal and agency
level that shaped the context of Kiowa lives, and of the persistence of Kiowa human-
ity shaped by tribalism in the face of inhumane treatment and conditions. Rand has
recently completed a fellowship at the Newberry Library, where she embarked on her
next project, an examination of twentieth-century Indian-State relations in a trans-
nationalist framework.

Ciraj Rassool is an associate professor of history and chairperson of the History De-
partment at the University of the Western Cape in South Africa, where he also di-
rects the African Program in Museum and Heritage Studies. He has written widely
on public history, visual history, and resistance historiography. Rassool is a trustee of
the District Six Museum and the South African History Archive. He is also a coun-
cilor of Iziko Museums of Cape Town and the National Heritage Council. He is co-
author of Skeletons in the Cupboard: South African Museums and the Trade in Hu-
man Remains 1907–1917; and coeditor of Recalling Community in Cape Town: Creating
and Curating the District Six Museum and Museum Frictions: Public Cultures/Global
Transformations.

Jennifer Shannon is currently a postdoctoral teaching fellow in the Department of

Anthropology at The University of British Columbia. Her research interests include
Indigenous rights and representation, focusing more recently on Indigenous self-rep-
resentation, collaborative practice, and the anthropology of museums. Prior to her
work at Cornell, from 1999 to 2002 she worked as a researcher in the curatorial de-
partment at the Smithsonian Institution’s National Museum of the American Indian,
contributing to two ongoing galleries: Our Peoples: Giving Voice to Our Histories and
Our Lives: Contemporary Life and Identities. Based on two years of fieldwork from
2004 to 2006 at the National Museum of the American Indian and in Native commu-
nities featured in its exhibitions, Shannon’s dissertation documents the collaborative
relationships and exhibit-making processes involved in the making of the Our Lives
gallery about contemporary Native life.

342 Contributors
Ray Silverman is a professor of history of art and Afroamerican and African Studies
and serves as director of the Museum Studies Program at the University of Michigan.
From 1988 to 2002 he was a member of the Michigan State University faculty. In ad-
dition to teaching courses dealing with the visual cultures of Africa, he has curated
a number of exhibitions dealing with African visual culture at the msu Museum and
Kresge Art Museum and at the ucla Fowler Museum. Silverman’s research and writing
has examined the interaction between West Africa and the cultures of the Middle East
and Europe, the history of metal technologies in Ethiopia and Ghana, the social values
associated with creativity in Ethiopia, the visual culture of religion in twentieth-cen-
tury Ethiopia, and the commodification of art in Ethiopia and Ghana. Most recently
he has been exploring museum culture in Africa, specifically how local knowledge is
translated in national and community-based cultural institutions.

Susan Sleeper-Smith is the author of Indian Women: Rethinking Cultural Encounter

in the Western Great Lakes and coeditor of the collection New Faces of the Fur Trade.
She has published in Ethnohistory, ahr, jah, Reviews in American History, the William
& Mary Quarterly, and Recherches amérindiennes. Her work focuses on metissage as
a site of inquiry, an exploration that opens new pathways for examining encounter as
well as the construction of national histories. She is a member of the Indian Studies
faculty at Michigan State University and serves as the director of the CIC–American
Indian Studies Consortium. A Mortar Board recipient for outstanding teaching, she
counts her students and her teaching as her most important credentials.

Contributors 343
 Index

Page numbers in italic refer to illus- 135, 138, 151n19, 152n24. See also Na-
trations tive American Graves Protection and
Repatriation Act (nagpra)
Aboriginal people, Australia, 247n68 American Indian removals, 260–63
Acoma Pueblo, 252–53 American Indian-run archives. See
Adams, Robert McCormick, 149n3 tribal archives
advocacy, 236–37 American Indian-run museums. See
aesthetics, 85, 222, 253. See also ugliness tribal museums
African Association for Promoting the American Indians, California, 284–302;
Discovery of the Interior of Africa, Chicago, 238; in films, 146–47;
53–54, 58 Michigan, 255, 327–35; New Mexico,
African International Council of Mu- 252–53, 303–321; New York, 259,
seums, 12 260, 261, 263, 266, 268; Wisconsin,
Africans, ethnographic display of, 10, 257–82. See also Museum of the
45–64 American Indian (mai); National
Ahayu:da, 311, 317 Museum of the American Indian
Aimoré people. See Botocudo (nmai); tribal museums
airfa. See American Indian Religious American Museum of Natural History
Freedom Act (airfa) (amnh), 76, 78, 79, 97n48
alcoholism, 331, 332 Ames, Michael, 221
aldeias. See villages, Brazil amm. See U.S. Army Medical Museum
Alfred, Taiaiake, 326 ancestors, Ojibwe and, 333–34
All Roads Are Good (exhibit), 224–25, Anderson, Benedict, 264, 297
226 Anishinabe. See Ojibwe people
American Anthropological Association, Anthropological Athletic Meet, 59
75, 310 anthropology, 69, 76, 110, 221, 225–26,
American Indian gaming, 101n72, 210, 253, 310–11; photography and, 311–12.
252, 266, 284 See also salvage anthropology
American Indian Religious Freedom Anyon, Roger, 317
Act (airfa), 284, 287 apartheid, 107, 110, 114, 121, 122, 124n12
American Indian remains, 100n65, 134, apprenticeship programs, 319

345
archaeology, 76, 77, 117, 169, 275, 296, 311 and, 120; dioramas and, 108; ethno-
archives, 18, 28. See also tribal archives graphic showcases and, 50; Kwakwa
Aristotle, 309 ka’wakw and, 281n42; nmai and, 218,
Army Medical Museum. See U.S. Army 219, 221, 224, 227, 228, 231, 239; South
Medical Museum (amm) Africa, 60, 108, 112; tribal museums
artifacts, 1–2, 84–85, 169–70, 265, 299, and, 265; West Side Stories, and, 177
336n11; All Roads Are Good exhibit, Autshumato, 113
224–25, 226; amm and, 138; authen- Aztecs, 197
ticity, 243n14; captured weapons as,
88; climate control and, 145; cocura- Baartman, Saartjie, 53–54, 57, 58
tors and, 223; collectors’ attachment bae. See Bureau of American Ethnology
to, 67–68; Creation’s Journey exhibit, (bae)
225; Hupa, 254, 289–90; Huichol, Bancos de San Hipólito, Durango, 207
211; labeling, 98n56, 144; lack of baptism, 187n11
documentation, 104n84; nmai bar. See Bureau of Acknowledgement
and, 11–12, 92n28, 244n30; Metis, and Recognition
173; Ojibwe, 333–34; Oneida, 259, Bartolomé, Miguel, 204
266; personal talismans, 166–67; as Batoche National Historic Site, 168, 176
primary texts, 69, 78, 89n16, 103n78, Battle of Seven Oaks, 159, 185n4, 185n6
144; repatriation of, 83, 93n34, 136, Batwa, 58
288, 313, 317; representative of a class, Baudrillard, Jean, 67
297; reproduction of, 310; “rubbish Baumann, Richard, 200
theory” and, 105n89; “salvage” and, beadwork, 174, 182, 333; in art, 175, 177,
11; situated in cultural context, 224; 183
as “speaking subjects,” 221; theft, Beauval, Saskatchewan, 182
94n40; Zuni, 313, 314, 317. See also Belcourt, Christi, 175, 177
dance regalia; funerary and sacred Benga, Ota, 58, 62
objects; preservation; replicas Bennett, Tony, 82
art museums, 69, 89n14, 280n17 berdaches, 312
art, Native. See Native art Berkhofer, Robert, 263
A:shiwi A:wan Museum and Heritage Bernstein, Bruce, 90n18, 238
Center, 253–54, 303–4, 313–14 Bird, Junius, 90n23
Asociación Jalisciense de Apoyo a los Bird, S. Elizabeth, 146
Grupos Indígenas, 216n24 Black Body (Mohanram), 61
assimilation, 262, 267, 273, 277 blended languages. See languages,
Atlanta Braves, 147 blended
audience. See museum audience Bleek, Wilhelm, 112
audio in museums, 331, 333 blood, 199, 202, 204
Australia, 247n68 “blood memory,” 333
authenticity, 242n11, 243n14, 244n33, Blood Red Gringo. See Red Gringo
269, 273, 284; community museums Blue Mestizo, 198

346 Index
boarding schools, 181–82, 191n29, 264, California Historical Resources Infor-
330 mation System (chris), 292
Boas, Franz, 76, 77, 224 California Indians, 284–302
Boast, Robin, 316 Canada, provinces, 188n12
boats, 191n27. See also York boats Canadian Federation for the Humani-
Bodinger de Uriarte, John J., 266 ties and Social Sciences, 171
Bonifácio de Andrade e Silva, José, Canadian Indians. See First Nations
27–28 Canadian Museum of Civilization,
Bosjemans. See San 243n14
Botocudo, 9, 15, 17, 18–34, 36–37, cannibalism, 9, 15–37; bibliography,
41nn32–33 38n2; images of, 41n34
Bouvier, Rita, 183 Cape Frontier Wars, 47, 51
Bowechop, Janine, 275 card catalogs, 70, 75, 90n18, 95n44
boxcars, 73, 93n31 Carib Territory, 222, 237, 238
Brandt, Elizabeth, 306 Carlson, Keith, 156, 165, 170, 173
Brazil, 9–10, 15–44
Carlson, Teresa, 156, 166, 168, 169, 170,
Brazilian Historical and Geographic
173, 189n21
Institute. See Instituto Histórico e
Carpenter, Edmund, 74, 94n40
Geográfico Brasileiro
Carpio, Myla Vicenti, 334
Bredekamp, Henry, 113
Carrillo, Catarino, 200–202, 206, 207,
Briggs, Charles, 193
210, 213
Britain. See Great Britain
Carruthers, Jane, 122n5
British Columbia, 168
cartography. See maps and mapping
British in South Africa, 47
casinos. See American Indian gaming
Bronx Zoo, 58
Cass, Lewis, 331
Brooklyn Museum, 97n48
Brown, Michael, 144 Catholic Church, 160–62
Buffalo River Dene Nation, 188n15 caves, 211
Bungi, 190n24 Cayetano, José, 206, 207, 210, 213
Bureau of Acknowledgment and Recog- cemeteries, 165, 172
nition (bar), 295 ceramic vessels, 105n88
Bureau of American Ethnology (bae), ceremonial treks. See treks, ceremonial
151n21, 304 Cerro Quemado, 200
Bureau of Indian Affairs, 286 Cezar, Henrik, 54
burial, 138 The Changing Presentation of the Ameri-
Burned Mountain. See Cerro Quemado can Indian, 145
Burnett, E. K., 71 Chicago Indians. See urban Indians,
Bush, George H. W., 79 Chicago
Bushmen. See San chiefs, 262, 281n40
children, 48; as museumgoers, 144, 254,
cabins, replica, 177, 179 315, 316–17; given money by Ojibwes
Caldecott, A. T., 55 in London, 59; San, 114

Index 347
Chipewyan people. See Dene people communications technology in muse-
Chippewa people. See Ojibwe people ums, 140–42, 143–44, 229
choirs, South African, 60, 114 community centers, 255, 276, 327–35
chris. See California Historical Re- community curators and curating, 206,
sources Information System (chris) 216n24, 218–19, 222–23, 228, 229,
Chrisjohn, Irvin, 266 232–37, 239, 246n61, 247n68; diora-
Christianity, 15, 325; Indianized, 200; mas and, 145–46
Oneidas and, 262 community museums, 119–22, 210
Christian missionaries, 50–51, 52, 59, Community University Research Alli-
161, 187n10 ance (cura), 156, 158, 164, 165
Circa 1925 at the Museum of the Ameri- compromise, 147, 239
can Indian (exhibit), 224 computer use, Zunis and, 315, 316
Civilian Conservation Corps (ccc), 251 Congress 2007, 171
claims, 193. See also land claims; sover- Conn, Steven, 76
eignty claims constituencies, museum. See museum
class. See social class constituencies
Clifford, James, 67, 194, 207 Constitution Act, 1982 (Canada), 162
climate control, 145 constitutional amendments, Mexico,
Cobb, Amanda J., 81, 322 207–8
cocurators. See community curators consultants, 288, 317; anthropological,
and curating 197, 216n24; museum, 145, 167, 200,
coevalness, denial of, 56–57, 104n85 245n49
coins, 201, 202 content control of exhibitions, Native.
collaboration, 146, 156, 167, 218, 240, See Native content control of exhibi-
252, 253 tions
collection exchanges. See museum col- copying. See duplication
lection exchanges corporate partnerships, 147
collectors, 65–68, 70–80, 94nn40–41, Cosmorama (London), 55, 56
98n57; as “stewards,” 221 Costner, Kevin, 146
colonialism, 12–13, 264; collecting and, Council of Traditional Leaders, 115
67, 68; Metis and, 185m5; museums court cases, 285–88
and, 69, 81, 166, 167, 323, 326; Onei- Court of King’s Bench, 54
das and, 262, 274; South Africa, 107, crania. See skulls
108, 113, 114, 116; tribal museums and, craniology, 143
251, 255 craniometrists, 48
colonization, 3, 4, 81, 83, 335; “colonized Cree, 161, 162, 163, 186n9. See also
Indians,” 34; ethnography and, 9, 28; Bungi; Michif
nmai and, 141; Portuguese, 15, 18; crisis, 241n10
Ziibiwing Center and, 329–30, 332. Cuba, 100n65
See also decolonization cultural interpreters, 140
Columbus, Christopher, 1 cultural preservation, right to, 284

348 Index
cultural relativism, 32 display cases, 217n35, 224, 225; color
Cultural Resources Center, 72–73 symbolism of, 206
cultural sovereignty, 78–86 , 103n80, display of humans. See ethnographic
134, 275, 298–300 showcases
cultural tourism, 107, 108, 207 District Six Museum (Cape Town), 13,
cultural villages, South Africa, 108, 109, 119–22
123n7 Doce River, 20, 21, 26, 30
cura. See Community University Re- Dockstader, Frederick J., 72
search Alliance (cura) Dominica, 222
curators and curating, 129–30, 136, 156, Drury, James, 117
264; nmai, 222–23, 229, 233, 234–37, Dubin, Margaret, 219, 226
240. See also community curators Duffee, Kristina, 171
and curating Dumont, Gabriel, 159, 180, 185n6
currency, Mexico, 197, 202–3 duplication, 304–5, 313; of photographs,
Cushing, Frank Hamilton, 253, 310–11, 314. See also replicas
312, 317 Durrans, Brian, 68
Cuvier, George, 57
eagles, 201; on currency, 197, 199, 202–3;
dance, 289, 319 on flag, 199, 214n6
dance regalia, 289 ecomuseum concept, 314
Dances with Wolves, 146–47 Economic Development Administra-
Darlington, MacKinley, 171 tion, 288
databases, 316. See also Internet-accessi- economics, Huichol, 199–205, 211
ble databases Egyptian Hall, London, 54, 57
decolonization, 135, 253, 276, 322–37 Ekdahl, Bonnie, 335
decoys, 225–26 Ellen, Roy, 94n41
deer-people, 198, 199, 201, 205 English language, 57, 59, 62
Deloria, Vine Jr., 80, 242, 264 Enote, Jim, 314, 319
DeLugan, Robin Marie, 139 enslavement. See slavery
Dene, 161, 162, 163, 186n9, 188n15 entertainment function of museums,
dialogue in museum work, 133–34, 166, 167, 222
139–40, 142, 147, 148, 149n3, 152n22 entertainment industry, 50
Dickstein Thompson, Laura, 136, 140, environmental control. See climate
148 control
Diefenbaker Canade Centre (dcc), Erickson, Mark, 177
exhibits, 156–91; employees, 165 Erikson, Patricia Pierce, 275
digital kiosks, 141, 144 Eschwege, Wilhelm Ludwig von, 27–28,
digital museums, 143 30–34, 35, 36
dioramas, 13, 45, 145, 146, 224; South Eskimo. See Inuit
Africa, 106, 110–13, 116–17, 119 essentialism, 81, 82, 102n76, 153n34
disease, 332 ethnicity, 107, 108, 116

Index 349
ethnogenesis, Metis, 160–61, 171; Hui- focus groups, 253
chol, 197, 200–203 Force, Roland, 72, 79, 99n60
“ethnogenesis” (word), 184n4 forest dwellers, Brazil, 15–44
ethnographic showcases, 10, 45–64. See Forest Service. See U.S. Forest Service
also dioramas For Indigenous Eyes Only (Wilson and
ethnography, 9–14, 193, 194, 221, 242n11; Yellow Bird), 325
Brazil, 9–10, 15–44; Great Britain, Foucault, Michel, 134, 135
45–64; South Africa, 106–26; United framing, 107
States, 65–105, 219, 223, 242n13, 253, freedom of religion. See religious
264. See also salvage ethnography freedom
ethnologists, 28–29, 47, 310–11 French in Brazil, 28
ethnology, 48, 77, 109 French language, 190
exhibition of humans. See ethnographic Freud, Sigmund, 94n41
showcases Frobisher brothers, 161
exhibitions, Native content control. See funerary and sacred objects, 135, 136,
Native content control of exhibitions 139, 166–67; airfa and, 287; photog-
Eyre, Chris, 79 raphy of, 312; repatriation, 313. See
also medicine masks
Fabian, Johannes, 56–57 fur trade, 159, 160, 161, 164, 185n4,
facsimiles. See replicas 191n27; ritual baptism and, 187n11
families, Hupa, 289–90
Farah, Omar Idle, 12 Gaelic language, 190n24
farming, 165, 319 Gambell, Kevin, 165
Favel, Floyd, 139, 142, 146, 149n3, 153n34 gazing. See looking
fear of Europeans, 37, 44n46 gender bias, 180–81
Feast of the Magi, 197 gender roles, 278
feathers, 194; illegal collection of, 139 genocide, 137, 239, 322, 323, 325, 330
Fehr, Amanda, 165 George Gustav Heye Center, 72, 78–79,
Ferguson, T. J., 317 147
fetishistic collecting, 94n41 George, Merv Jr., 104
Field Museum (Chicago), 151n22 Gerard, Jesse, 177
film, 309; in museums, 141, 327. See also Geronimo, 59
American Indians in films Giraud, Marcel, 185n5
First Nations people: Ontario, 261; gold, 15, 17, 18, 19, 20, 22, 25; Mexico,
Saskatchewan, 188n13 204, 205; sun transformed into, 200
Fischer, Michael, 242n11 Golden Lagoon, 20–21, 24, 36
fishing, 163, 164, 256 Goody, Jack, 309
Fitzhugh, William, 227 Gordon, Robert, 191n26
flags, Mexican, 199, 214n6 go-Road, 286–88
Flaubert, Gustave, 34–35 Gosden, Chris, 68
flint knapping, 310 Gosling, Melanie, 110, 124n16

350 Index
“governmentality” (word), 301n3 historiography, 142, 324–25, 328–29
Grant, Cuthbert, 159, 185n6 Hobsbawm, Eric, 66
graphic design, 177, 180 Hollywood films, 146–47, 153n34
grave robbing, 117, 118 “Homeland Tours” (Oneida), 268
“gray literature,” 296 hooks, bell, 61
Great Britain, ethnographic showcases Hoopa people. See Hupa people
in, 45–52, 54–61, 62 Hoopa Tribal Museum, 254, 288–90,
Great Lakes Research Alliance for the 296, 299
Study of Aboriginal Arts and Cul- Hoopa Valley Reservation, 285
tures, 104n82 Hoopa Valley Tribe, 285, 286, 288–90,
Green, Jesse, 310 299
Green Lake, Saskatchewan, 161 Hoopa-Yurok Settlement Act, 286, 288,
Grey Nuns, 181, 187n10 300
Griqua, 114, 115 Hopi politics, 306
Horniman, Frederick John, 75, 95n43
Haakanson, Sven, 227
“Hottentot Venus.” See Baartman,
Haak’u Museum, 252–53
Saartjie
Hadebe, Fidel, 111
Howe, Greg, 235
Hales, Henry, 95n44
Hudson, John, 331
Half-Breed Claims Commission, 171,
Hudson’s Bay Company (hbc), 159, 160,
190n23
161, 185n6, 191n27
“half-breed” (term), 184n3
Huichol people, 129–30, 192–217
Hamilton, Carolyn, 109
human exhibitions. See ethnographic
Harjo, Suzan Shown, 80, 99n60, 152n24
showcases
Harper, Stephen, 181
human remains, 147, 166, 167; amm
Haudenosaunee people, 255, 257–64,
267–73, 276, 277, 278. See also and, 138, 139, 151n19; repatriation, 13,
Oneidas 100n65, 106, 118, 119, 134; South Af-
hbc. See Hudson’s Bay Company (hbc) rica, 117–18, 119, 126n40; and, 152n24.
headdresses, 289 See also American Indian remains;
Hearst, William Randolph, 74 skeletons; skulls
The Heye and the Mighty (Force), 72 hunting, 163, 164, 192, 194, 195, 208, 209;
Heye, Carl, 70 Ojibwe, 256; sacrificial, 211
Heye, George Gustav, 11, 65–67, 70–80, humans’ smell. See smell of humans
81, 85–86, 94n40, 139; hiring of non- Huntington, Archer, 75, 76, 97n48
academics, 96n47; “Native” identity Hupa people, 285, 286, 296
of collection, 146; New York City
and, 97n48; potsherds and, 105n88 identity, 116, 259, 268–69, 273, 286;
Hihndorf, Shari, 84 federal recognition and, 294; Hupa,
Hilden, Patricia Penn, 84 286, 296; Yurok, 286
Hill, Rick, 145 Igloolik, Nunavut, 222, 226, 228, 230,
historic sites, 291–92; Canada, 168 237–38

Index 351
Île à la Crosse, Saskatchewan, 161, 163, Internet, 143, 144
172, 181, 187n10, 191n29 Internet-accessible databases, 104n82;
ilo. See International Labor Organiza- Zunis and, 315
tion (ilo) Internet-accessible museum collections.
imperialism, 50, 52, 56, 274; films and, See digital museums
146; museums and, 69, 73, 85; science interpreters, cultural. See cultural
and, 48 interpreters
Indian gaming. See American Indian interview transcripts, 228–29
gaming Into the Heart of Africa (exhibit),
Indian remains. See American Indian 244n29
remains Inuit, 162, 222, 224, 226, 227, 228, 230
Indian removals. See American Indian Iroquois Confederacy. See Haudeno-
removals saunee people
Indian Reorganization Act, 263 Isla de Alacranes, 217n33
Indians in films. See American Indians Iziko Museums of Cape Town, 13, 109,
in films
112
Indians of Brazil, 9–10, 15, 17, 18–34,
36–37; resistance, 23
Jacobs, Madeleine, 152n24
Indians of Canada. See First Nations
Jequitinhonha River, 18, 19
people
Jesse Short et al. v. The United States,
Indians of Mexico, 192–217; law and
285–86
legislation, 207–8
Jesus Christ, 199, 200
“Indian” (word), 1, 146
João VI, 15, 21, 22, 25–26, 35, 36
Indigenous art. See Native art
Jump Dance, 289
Indigenous people, Africa. See Africans
“just war,” 2, 15, 37
Indigenous people, Australia. See Ab-
original people, Australia
Indigenous people, Brazil. See Indians “Kaffir” Wars. See Cape Frontier Wars
of Brazil Kagga Kamma, 110, 111
Indigenous people, Canada. See First Kahnawake Mohawks, 268
Nations people Kalahari Gemsbok National Park, 110
Indigenous people, Mexico. See Indians Kalinago, 222, 237, 238
of Mexico Kauyumarie, 198, 199–200, 201–3, 205,
Indigenous people, United States. See 212
American Indians Kechiba:wa, 316
Indigenousness, 115, 116, 206, 209, 227 “keeping houses.” See tribal museums
Inouye, Daniel, 79, 99n60 Kellogg, Laura Cornelius, 264
Instituto Histórico e Geográfico Brasil- Kessler, Richard, 65
eiro, 35 Khoisan, 13, 106–7, 110, 111–16; human
intellectual freedom, 103n79 remains, 118, 126n40. See also San
International Labor Organization (ilo), Khoisan Heritage Route. See National
208, 212, 216n24 Khoisan Heritage Route

352 Index
Khoisan Legacy Project. See National Latin America, anthropological re-
Khoisan Legacy Project search, 75
Kidd, Julie, 136 lawsuits, 285–88
Kidwell, Clara Sue, 72 League of the Ho-dé-no-sau-nee, Iro-
kiekari, 192, 194, 195, 206 quois (Morgan), 264
King João VI. See João VI Lenz, Mary Jane, 73
King’s Bench. See Court of King’s Bench Léry, Jean de, 41n34
King, Thomas, 66 libraries, 309
kiosks, digital. See digital kiosks licenses, fishing and hunting, 163
Klamath River region, California, Listening to Our Ancestors. See Nation-
284–302 al Museum of the American Indian,
Knowles, Chantal, 68 Listening to Our Ancestors
knowledge organization, 309 Livingstone, David, 50–51
knowledge reproduction, 303, 304–5, Lloyd, Lucy, 112
309–13, 316, 318 loans to museums, 289–90
knowledge transmission, 303–21
logging roads, 286–88
Knox, Robert, 52
Lohman, Jack, 111
Krech, Shepard, 75
Lomnitz, Claudio, 204, 205
Kruiper, Davis, 111
London, 45, 46, 54, 55, 59, 60
!Kung, 112
longhouse ceremonies, 271–72
Kurin, Richard, 221, 231
longhouses, 257–59, 258, 262, 274, 275,
KwaZulu-Natal, 109
278
looking, 46, 51, 61
labeling of museum artifacts, 98n56, 144
loss, 102n76
Ladd, Edmund, 317
Lothrop, Samuel K., 71
Lake, Handsome, 269
La Loche, Saskatchewan, 161 Lynch, Michael, 227
land claims, 261, 273, 276; maps and, Lyng v. Northwest Indian Cemetery Pro-
293; Mexico, 192, 196, 199, 205, 206, tective Association, 285, 286–88, 300
207, 217n33; South Africa, 110 Lyons, Scott, 83, 102n76
land restitution, 208
land use studies, 158 Macauley, Zachary, 54
language classes and programs, 276, Macdougall, Brenda, 156, 165, 170, 173,
288, 328 176
language, English. See English language Madame Bovary (Flaubert), 34
language, French. See French language Magubane, Peter, 108, 123n8
language, Gaelic. See Gaelic language mai. See Museum of the American
language, Makah. See Makah language Indian (mai)
language, Ojibwe. See Ojibwe language Makah Cultural and Research Center,
language, Oneida. See Oneida language 252, 275–76
languages, 277; blended, 190n24. See Makah language, 275
also multilingualism Makulele, 108

Index 353
Mandela, Nelson, 123 mining, 15, 17, 25, 162, 163. See also silver
Manifest Destiny, 264 mines
Manitoba, 185n6, 238 Minnesota Historical Society, 251, 329
mannequins, 78, 145 Miscast: Negotiating Khoisan History
maps and mapping, 16, 30, 33, 41n34, and Material Culture, 111–12
41n37, 157, 164, 292–93; Huichols missionaries. See Christian missionaries
and, 210, 212; invention of, 309; in Mitchell, Timothy, 52, 53
museum exhibits, 172, 254 models. See replicas
Marcus, George, 242n11 Moffatt, Robert, 50–51
Marlière, Guido Tomás, 33–34, 42n39 Mohanram, Radhika, 61
Martius, Karl Friedrich Philipp von, 35 Mohawks, 268
masculinity, mai and, 97n47 money. See coins; currency
Mashantucket Pequot Museum, 252, monkeys, Africans compared to, 48, 57
265–66 Montreal, 161, 181
masks, 317. See also medicine masks Morgan, Lewis Henry, 264
Mason, Otis Tufton, 69, 312
Morton, Samuel, 48
“masterpieces,” 85
“Mound Builders” myth, 89n17
material culture. See artifacts
Moura, José Pereira Freire, 18–24, 27, 36
Maximilian of Wied-Neuwied, Prince,
Moynihan, Daniel Patrick, 79, 80
28, 29, 30
multiculturalism, 149n3, 205, 206, 209
McCain, John, 79–80
multilingualism, 60
McCarthy, Anna, 149
multimedia museum exhibits, 140–41,
McGregor Museum, 117
173, 229, 327
McMullen, Ann, 213, 238
murals, 177, 316
mechanical reproduction, 309–13. See
Museo Nacional de Antropología, 205,
also tape recorders
medicine masks, 255, 269–73 211
Melo, Pedro Maria Xavier Ataíde e, 21, museum audience, 134, 135, 136–37, 143
24, 25 museum collection exchanges, 97n48
mestizos, 198, 202, 203, 204 museum constituencies, 137, 143
Metis, 129–30, 156–91, 238; ethnogen- museum curators and curating. See
esis, 160–61 curators and curating
“Metis” and “Métis” (terms), 184n3 museum exhibit text. See text in mu-
Mexico, 192–217 seum exhibits
Mexico City, 202, 203 Museum of New Mexico, 317
Michif, 190n24 Museum of the American Indian (mai),
middle classes, 50 70–71, 72, 76–78, 92n27, 139, 148;
military souvenirs, 69, 88n11 American Indian employees, 136;
Mille Lacs Band of Ojibwe, 256, 329 First Floor East Hall, 225; lack of
Mille Lacs Indian Museum, 251, 329 labeling and documentation, 98n56,
Minas Gerais, 15, 17, 18, 21, 23, 25, 26, 28, 104n84; masculinity of, 97n47;
29, 32; map of, 16, 30 merger of collection with Smith-

354 Index
 sonian, 65, 72, 79, 86, 133; mission 276; Indigenous, 200; Mohawk,
statement, 149n4; nmai exhibit on, 268; Oneida, 262; South Africa, 114;
224; repatriation and, 93n34; stated United States, 267, 283–84; Yurok,
purpose, 98n52 291
Museum of the Cherokee, 251 National Khoisan Heritage Route, 114,
museums, community. See community 115
museums National Khoisan Legacy Project, 106,
museums’ entertainment function. See 107, 113, 119
entertainment function of museums National Museum (Brazil). See Museu
museums, digital. See digital museums Nacional (Brazil)
museums of art. See art museums National Museum of African American
museums, public. See public museums History and Culture, 81, 147
Museums, the Public, and Anthropology National Museum of African Art, 92n29
(Ames), 221 National Museum of Anthropology
museums, tribal. See tribal museums (Mexico). See Museo Nacional de
museums’ vernacular approaches. See Antropología
vernacular approaches of museums National Museum of Natural History
“museum” (word), 309 (nmnh), 98n56, 133, 139, 149n1; Inuit
Museu Nacional (Brazil), 35 exhibit, 227, 228
National Museum of the American In-
nafta. See North American Free Trade dian (nmai), 3, 11–12, 65–105, 129–31,
Agreement 133–55, 218–47, 255, 322–37; American
nagpra. See Native American Graves Indian employees, 255; architecture,
Protection and Repatriation Act 140, 144–45, 230–31, 231, 245n49;
Nakawe, 211 audience, 136–37, 143; birth, 78;
Nama, 114, 115 climate control, 144–45; collection
Nanook of the North, 143 provenance, 70–71; communications
narratives. See stories technology, 140–41; constituency,
Natal, 55 137, 143, 234; corporate partner-
National Air and Space Museum, 231 ships, 147, 148; Cultural Resources
National Anthropological Archives, Center, 72–73, 143, 213, 228; Curato-
304, 314 rial Department, 234–37; Exhibition
National Council of Indigenous People Master Plan, 226; “Fourth Museum,”
(proposed), 115 143; funding, 146–47m, 154n64, 210;
National Forest Service. See U.S. Forest George Gustav Heye Center, 72,
Service 78–79, 147; grand opening, 232, 324;
National Griqua Forum, 115 Huichols and, 196, 200, 205–6, 210,
National Historic Preservation Act, 291, 211, 212, 213, 216n24; image protec-
302n12 tion of, 93nn33–34; Listening to
nationalism, 78–80, 84, 134, 148, 205, Our Ancestors, 232, 238–39; Mall
264, 297–98, 300; amm and, 138; Museum, 73, 130–31, 136–37, 140,
Haudenosaunee, 258, 264, 267–68, 143, 147, 154n64, 218, 230–31, 232,

Index 355
National Museum of the Native people, Brazil. See Indians of
American Indian (continued) Brazil
245n49, 323; mission statement, Native people, Canada. See First Na-
99n58, 149n3, 209, 221, 234; “Mu- tions
seum Different” (slogan), 130, 255; Native people, Mexico. See Indians of
native sovereignty and, 101n70; Mexico
objectives, 99n63; Our Lives gal- Native photographers. See photogra-
lery, 220, 222, 226, 227–28, 229, 233, phers, Native
235, 238, 239, 244n30; Our Peoples Native tour guides, 140
gallery, 139, 142, 146, 153n34, 206, Native Universes (Trafzer), 73
216n24, 222, 244n30, 322; Our Uni- “Native” (word), 243n17
verses gallery, 141, 145, 222, 244n30; naturalists, Brazil, 28, 34
preservation efforts, 144, 145; reli- Natural Resource Transfer Agreement,
ance on objects, 103n78, 104n84; 162
repatriation and, 100n65; texts for Nazis, 152n24
New York City audiences, 91n27; Neitfeld, Patricia, 143
theaters, 141; Window on Collections neoliberalism, 147, 148, 291
display, 141, 144 The Network Inside Out (Riles), 229
National Museum of the American New, Lloyd Kiva, 80, 84–85
Indian Act, 79, 81, 134, 136, 137, 139, New North West Company. See xy
149n1; building costs and, 154n64 Company
The National Museum of the American New York City, 79, 91n27, 97n48; George
Indian: Critical Conversations (Lone- Heye and, 76
tree and Cobb), 322 New York State, 259, 260, 261, 263, 266,
national parks, 252 268
National Register of Historic Places, New York Zoological Gardens, 58
292, 302n12 Ngubane, Ben, 111
Native America Collected (Dubin), 219 nmai. See National Museum of the
Native American Graves Protection and American Indian (nmai)
Repatriation Act (nagpra), 134, 137, nmnh. See National Museum of Natural
252, 265 History (nmnh)
Native Americans. See American Nonsenzo, 58
Indians North American Free Trade Agreement
Native art, 69, 71, 82, 85; Huichol, 205, (nafta), 208
207 Northwest Coastal Information Center,
Native content control of exhibitions, 292–93, 299
130, 170–71, 212 North West Company, 161
Nativeness. See Indigenousness Northwest Indian Cemetery Protective
Native people, Africa. See Africans Association, 287
Native people, Australia. See Aboriginal Northwest Resistance, 185n6
people, Australia North West Territory, 188n12

356 Index
nudity, 45 the American Indian, Our Peoples
nuns, 181, 187n10 gallery
Our Universes. See National Museum of
object and subject. See subject and the American Indian, Our Universes
object gallery
objects. See artifacts Oxendine, Linda E., 271
Oblates. See Order of Mary Immaculate Ozette archaeological site, 275
O’Connor, Sandra Day, 287
oil lamps, 224 paintings, 175, 177, 272, 316
Ojibwe language, 333 Peabody Museum of Archaeology and
Ojibwe people, 47, 59, 255; Lewis Cass Ethnology, 76, 289
and, 331; Mille Lacs, Minnesota, 251, Pearce, Susan, 67, 68
256; Michigan, 327–35 pedagogy, Zuni, 307, 314, 317
Oneida Carrying Place, 260 Pedro Páramo (Rulfo), 205
Pemmican Wars, 185m4
Oneida Cultural Festival, 274
Penn Museum. See University of Penn-
Oneida Cultural Heritage Department,
sylvania Museum
272
Pepper, George, 70, 77, 89n16, 95n44,
Oneida language, 262, 276
97n51
Oneida Nation Museum, 254–55, 257–82
Pequots, 266
Oneidas, New York, 259, 260, 261,
Peringuey, Louis, 117
263, 266; Ontario, 261; Wisconsin,
Perot, H. Ross, 79
257–64, 266–82
pest control, 144–45
online museums. See digital museums
Peterson, Jacqueline, 184n4
Onondaga ny, 261 peyote, 194, 199, 200, 203, 204
oral tradition, 303, 314, 315–16, 328, 329 Philadelphia Centennial Exhibition
Order of Mary Immaculate, 161, 187n10 (1876), 138, 151n22
organization of knowledge. See knowl- Philippines, 88n11
edge organization Phillips, Ruth, 85, 218, 334
origin stories, 197, 200–203 photographers, 108, 198; Native, 103n80
Orion Pictures, 146 photographs, 108, 190n25, 270, 314–15
Osage Tribal Museum, 251 photography, 309; Zunis and, 253, 304,
other, 45, 52, 61, 167, 263; collectors as, 311–12, 314–15, 318
68 phrenology, 47
“Otipimsuak” project, 156, 158, 184n2 Pierce, Charles Sanders, 206
Otis, George, 138 pilgrimages. See treks, ceremonial
Our Democracy and the American Pitt Rivers, Augustus Henry Lane Fox,
Indian (Kellogg), 264 75, 95n43
Our Lives. See National Museum of the Pitt Rivers Museum, 98n56
American Indian, Our Lives gallery poaching, 163
Our Peoples. See National Museum of Podruchny, Carolyn, 187

Index 357
Poolaw, Linda, 81 reality, 53
Portugal, war on Botocudo, 15, 17, 21–27, reburial of human remains, 118, 119
30, 31–33, 35, 36 Red Gringo, 197–98
Portuguese, 29, 31, 37 Reflections of a Cultural Broker (Kurin),
postmodernism, 227, 239, 322, 328 221
potsherds, 105n88 religion, 325; Zuni, 314, 319. See also
Powell, John Wesley, 151n21, 310–11 Christianity
PowerPoint, 173 religious freedom, 287–88
power (social relations), 61, 167; Zunis reparations, 163–64, 188n15, 323
and, 306, 308 repatriation, 137, 167; of artifacts, 83,
powwows, 223, 274, 277 93n34, 99n60, 136; of dance regalia,
Prates, Manoel Rodrigues, 19, 20 289; of human remains, 13, 99n60,
Pratt, Mary Louise, 194 100n65, 106, 118, 119; legislation,
preservation, 276, 284, 291–93; museum 189n18. See also National Museum of
collections and, 144, 145, 265, 289,
the American Indian Act
309. See also cultural preservation
replicas, 154n51, 177, 178, 179, 243n14,
priests, 161, 187n10; Zuni, 306, 307–8,
245n46; Frank Cushing and, 310–11;
317
history of, 309–10; longhouses, 257,
“primitive” (word), 9, 10, 167
258, 259, 274, 275, 278; Zunis and,
Primrose–Cold Lake Air Weapons
317, 318
Range, 163
reproduction of knowledge. See knowl-
Prince João. See João VI
edge reproduction
problematization, 133–55
resistance, 18, 19, 25, 61–62, 83; Khoisan,
processions. See treks
113; silence as a form of, 58–59, 62
progress, 2
prophecies, 328–29 responsibility, Zuni and, 307, 308,
provinces, Canada. See Canada, prov- 313–17, 318, 319
inces restitution, 101n72, 208
pseudoscience, 48–49 rhetoric, 2, 32, 66, 79, 232; “crisis rheto-
public museums, 2, 83, 97n51 ric,” 241n10
Pueblos, 306, 307. See also Acoma Riel, Louis, 159, 180, 181, 185n6, 191n26
Pueblo; Zuni Pueblo Riles, Annelise, 229
Punch, 55–56 Riviére, George, 314
Puri, 17, 28, 29, 30 roads, 286–88, 293
Robinson, Edna, 191n26
quinquilharias. See trinkets Roman Catholic Church. See Catholic
Church
Raath, Mike, 118 Roosevelt, Anna, 72
racialism, 48, 121 Rosen, Herbert R., 142
racism, 49, 61, 295. See also apartheid Royal Museum (Brazil). See Museu
Rand, Jackie Thompson, 82 Nacional (Brazil)
Rau, Reinhold, 110 “rubbish theory,” 105n89

358 Index
Rulfo, Juan, 205 Shako:wi Cultural Center, 266, 276
runaway slaves, 19, 29 shamans, Huichol, 192, 193, 194, 197,
Rupertsland, 188n12 198, 212
Shasta Nation, 254, 293, 295–96, 299
sacred objects. See funerary and sacred Shaw, Margaret, 112
objects Shelton, Anthony, 67
sacred places, 194–95, 203 shrines, Franciscan, 201; Marian, 165,
sacrificial hunting, 211 172, 177, 178
sacrificial offerings, 194, 195, 199 Shxwt’a:selhawtxw, 169, 170, 189n20
Saginaw Chippewa Indian Tribe, 327–35 Sierra Madre, 192, 196
Sainte-Hilaire, August de, 28–29, 30, 35 silence, as a form of resistance, 58–59,
St. George’s Gallery, Knightsbridge, 46, 62
47, 58 silver mines, 200
St. Laurent Metis, 238 Silverstein, Michael, 228, 231–32
St. Lawrence River, 187 Simpson, Audra, 268
Singer, Beverly, 141
St. Louis World’s Fair (1904), 58
singers, South African, 60
Salinas de Gortari, Carlos, 207
Six Nations. See Haudenosaunee people
salvage anthropology, 11, 69, 280n20
“Six Nations” (name), 267–68
salvage ethnography, 76
skeletons, collecting of, 117, 118–19,
sam. See South African Museum (sam)
126n40
sama. See South African Museums As-
Skeletons in the Cupboard (Legassick
sociation (sama)
and Rassool), 118, 119
San, 46, 48–49, 50, 52, 54, 57, 110, 111,
skulls, 138. See also craniology; crani-
112, 115
ometrists
San Andrés Cohamiata, 196, 199, 200,
Skotnes, Pippa, 112
203, 212, 216n24 Sky City Cultural Center, 252–53
San Cultural Heritage Committee, 111 slavery, 26, 37, 54. See also runaway
Santiago, 200, 201–2, 203, 205 slaves
Saskatchewan, 156–91; First Nations Small, Lawrence, 73, 139, 155n67
population, 188n13 smell of humans, 28
Saskatchewan Native Theatre Company, Smith, Claire, 323
177 Smith, James, 72
Saville, Marshall, 70, 75, 95n44, 96n47 Smith, Paul Chaat, 80, 101n72, 142,
schools, 60. See also boarding schools 149n3
scrip, 162, 164, 172, 182, 190n23 Smithsonian Institution, 76, 81, 92n29;
script editors and editing, 235, 236 mission, 224; nmai and, 12, 65, 73,
secrecy, 306–7 79, 99n63, 136; Philadelphia Centen-
Seneca-Iroquois National Museum, 252 nial Exhibition (1876) and, 151n22;
serpents, on currency, 197; on flag, Public Affairs office memos, 151n19;
214n6 publications, 221; scientific legitima-
Shakaland Zulu Cultural Village, 109 cy and, 151n21. See also National

Index 359
Smithsonian Institution (continued) 332; in film, 146; Inuit, 227; mascu-
Anthropological Archives; National linity and, 181
Museum of the American Indian Stevenson, Matilda Coxe, 304, 311–12
(nmai) sticks, 85
Smokis, 319 Stocking, George, 67
snakes. See serpents Stó:lō, 168–69, 170, 173, 189n19
social class, 51. See also middle classes, stories, 207, 326; authentic, 265; Hui-
upper classes
chol, 206, 208; Metis, 158, 164, 170,
social power. See power (social rela-
171, 172, 182–83; nationalism and,
tions)
267; nmai exhibits and, 226; tribal
Social Sciences and Humanities Re-
museums and, 252, 275, 277; Zuni,
search Council (sshrc), 156, 158
308, 316. See also origin stories
social status. See status
Soto Soria, Alfonso, 211 Strother, Z. S., 52
sound in museums. See audio in mu- subject and object, 51, 52–53, 61, 219,
seums 224, 231
South Africa, 13, 46–47, 49, 51–52, 55, 59, sugar plantations, 15
60, 106–26 suicide, 62
South African Cultural History Mu- sun, 199–200, 201, 202
seum, 112 Supreme Court cases, 256, 287–88
South African Museum (sam), 106, surveillance. See looking
112–13, 116–17, 119 “survivance” (word), 150n9
South African Museums Association
(sama), 106, 118 Taíno people, 100n65
Southeast Alaska Indian Cultural Cen- Tanana, 199–200, 202
ter, 251–52 tape recorders, 308, 316
souvenirs, military. See military sou- Tayau, 199–200, 205
venirs
technology and knowledge transmis-
sovereignty, 253, 284; Haudenosaunee,
sion, 303
263, 264; Huichol, 195, 208–9, 211;
television, 146, 149n3
Ojibwe, 256; Shasta, 295. See also cul-
temples, Mexico, 209
tural sovereignty; state sovereignty
temporal distancing, 69
sovereignty claims, 195
Spain, 197, 199, 200, 203 Teters, Charlene, 147
Spanish-American War, 88n11 text in museum exhibits, 212, 217n35,
Stanley, George, 185n5 222, 232–33, 236, 239; community
state, 292, 297, 298; Huichols and, 204–5; curating and, 218, 223; ethnographic,
museums and, 264. See also “unrec- 219, 224; Native-authored, 226;
ognized” tribes transcripts and, 225, 229; West Side
state sovereignty, 298 Stories, 158, 173, 176–77, 183, 190n22
status, 306 Thackeray, Francis, 118
stereotypes, 1, 2, 11, 108, 153n34, 219, 326, Thames Oneidas, 261, 268

360 Index
theatrical display of humans. See ethno- Turtle Museum (Niagara Falls, New
graphic showcases York), 266
theft, 94n40, 167 Tutu, Desmond, 326
Thompson, Michael, 105n89 Tylor, Edward Burnett, 311
timber sales, 285
Tlingit, 252 ugliness, 50
tour guides, Native. See Native tour United Kingdom. See Great Britain
guides United Nations, 115
tourism, 107, 109, 112, 115, 123, 207, University of Pennsylvania Museum,
217n33. See also cultural tourism; 70, 76, 96n45
“Homeland Tours” (Oneida) University of Saskatchewan, 166, 168
traditional land-use interviews, 164 “unrecognized” tribes, 293–96
tradition, Native people and, 82, 83 upper classes, 51
transcripts of interviews. See interview Urban, Greg, 228, 231–32
transcripts Urban, Hugh, 307
transmission of knowledge. See knowl- urban Indians, Chicago, 238
edge transmission U.S. Army Medical Museum (amm),
travel, 261, 268, 269. See also tourism; 133, 137–39, 148, 151n19
treks U.S. Customs House, New York City, 72,
travel accounts, 35, 52, 69; bibliography, 79, 147
42n41 U.S. Department of the Interior, Indian
treaties, 162, 163, 182; court cases, 256 Affairs. See Bureau of Indian Affairs
treks, ceremonial, 197, 198, 199, 200, U.S. Forest Service, 286–87
203, 208 U.S. Supreme Court cases. See Supreme
tribal archives, 292–93, 295–96, 299 Court cases
Tribal Historic Preservation Officers,
291; Yurok, 292 Vallo, Brian, 252–53
tribal museums, 3–4, 137, 168, 169, 170, Vanishing Cultures in South Africa
251–52; Alaska, 251–52; California, (Magubane), 108, 123n8
252, 288–89; Michigan, 255, 327–35; Vasconcelos, Diogo Ribeiro, 23–24
Minnesota, 251, 329; New Mexico, “vernacular” (word), 305
252–54, 303–4, 313–14; Oklahoma, vernacular approaches in museums,
251; Washington, 252, 275–76; Wis- 305–6
consin, 254–55, 257–82 videos in museums, 142, 218, 229, 230,
Tricameral Constitution (South Africa), 266, 315
124n12 villages, Brazil, 18, 20, 24, 33–34, 42n38.
tricksters, 198 See also cultural villages
trinkets, 21, 22, 24 Virgin Mary, 165, 172, 177, 178
truth commissions, 325, 326 virtual kiosks. See digital kiosks
tukite, 209 virtual museums. See digital museums
Turner, Ted, 147 Volkert, Jim, 225

Index 361
“Wahkootowin” (word), 186n8 Works Progress Administration (wpa),
Wakeham, Pauline, 323–24 251
Wallace, Kevin, 71, 73 world’s fairs, 10, 69; Chicago (1893),
Wanuskewin Heritage Park, 167–68 151n22; St. Louis (1904), 58
war, 15, 24–27, 30, 31–33, 35, 36; spoils,
88n11. See also “just war” /Xam, 112
Warrior, Robert Allen, 102n76 Xhosa, 47
Washington dc, 79 xy Company, 161m 186n9
Watt, Ian, 309
The Way of the People, 144 Yakama Nation Cultural Heritage
weapons, in museum collections, 88n11 Center, 252
Web-accessible databases. See Internet-
Yellow Bird, Michael, 323, 325
accessible databases
York boats, 176, 177, 191n27
West, Richard, 73, 81, 143, 149n3, 218,
Yurok people, 254, 286, 299
232–34
West Side Stories (exhibit), 129, 156–91
Ziibiwing Center for Anishinabe Cul-
We’wha, 312
ture, 255, 327–35
White Deerskin Dance, 289
Zingg, Robert, 200
Who We Are, 141
zoos, 11, 58
Wilcox, Vince, 72
Wilson, Waziyatawin Angela, 323, zoos, human. See ethnographic show-
325–26, 328 cases
windows, “non-operable and sealed,” Zulus, 46, 47, 50, 55, 109
144 Zuma, Jacob, 126n40
Wirikuta, 197, 199, 200, 203, 208 Zuni Archaeology Program, 313
Wisconsin Indians, 257–82 Zuni Cultural Resources Advisory
Wixarika. See Huichol Team, 315
women, absence from mai staff, 97n47; Zuni Heritage and Historic Preserva-
Haudenosaunee, 278; Metis, 164 tion Office, 304, 315
Women’s Information Network newslet- Zuni museum. See A:shiwi A:wan Mu-
ter, 229 seum and Heritage Center
wood, 145, 154n51 Zuni Pueblo, 303–21

362 Index